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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29077224">I’ve Got Termites in the Framework (So Do You)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayvillains/pseuds/gayvillains'>gayvillains</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Ghosts (TV 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Julianisms, Coming Out Narratives, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Old Not-Yet-Married Couple, Repression, Slurs (Affectionate)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:20:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>19,199</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29077224</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayvillains/pseuds/gayvillains</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>For twenty-six years, Julian and the Captain have orbited around one another, bickering and scheming, Julian's insults cutting deeper and deeper with every passing year.</p><p>When things begin to unravel, Julian and the Captain are forced to confront the question on everyone's tongue: is this really what hatred looks like?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>The Captain/Julian Fawcett, background Lady Fanny Button/Mary, background Thomas Thorne/Humphrey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>86</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>109</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Not-so-Jane-Crazy (Prologue)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p></p><div class="center">
  <p><br/>'Yeah, the house and the jewels, the Italian race car,<br/>They don't make us feel better about who we are.<br/>I got termites in the framework, so do you.'</p>
  <p>The Mountain Goats - Fault Lines</p>
</div>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Oh I really am <em> terribly </em> sorry, old chap! How <em> bally </em>dare I!" someone was saying as Alison entered the room, their tone entirely absent of regret, terrible or otherwise.</p><p>"You know, Julian, sarcasm really <em> is </em> the lowest form of wit,” the Captain retorted, bouncing on his heels in an attempt to exorcise the rage coursing through his limbs lest it manifest as a <em> thwack </em>of his drill stick.</p><p>Julian’s smug laughter was quite enough to drive any sane person barking mad on a good day, but today, of all days, the Captain was struggling especially to keep a tight rein on his ire. </p><p>“And the highest form of intelligence,” Julian oozed, flashing his smarmy grin at the man like a matador waving a flag. “Honestly, I took you for a fellow elite, but you don’t even know your Wilde.”</p><p>“I’ll bally well show you <em> wild</em>,” the Captain seethed, unsheathing his drill stick from under his arm when Julian quirked his eyebrow.</p><p>The verbal sparring match was happening so fast that it took Alison a few shocked moments to catch up, at which point she shot a concerned look at the audience of subdued spirits, all of whom clearly wanted to bolt the scene but were too afraid of making any sudden movements. Kitty, for one, was on the verge of tears, and Thomas was staring very pointedly into the middle distance, eyes watering not from tears but lack of blinking. Pat sat cross-legged on the floor, expression frozen in what Alison could only guess was cramp pain. They all looked relieved at Alison’s arrival.</p><p>In the seconds it took her to process all of this, the two men had already exchanged several further insults and were dangerously close to headbutting territory.</p><p>“Whoa! Guys,” she cut in, displaying her hands in what she hoped was a pacifying gesture, though she had to admit it had never helped before. “What the hell is going on here?”</p><p>The Captain and Julian turned in sync, both slack-jawed with shock at her presence. “Alison!” they said in unison.</p><p>The tension broke almost immediately when the Captain’s face drained of colour and he began stuttering the first syllable of her name repeatedly, and a flurry of ghosts darted for the door at once. When the metaphorical smoke cleared, only Humphrey’s head and the sound of receding footfalls remained. </p><p>“Don’t worry,” Humphrey said dejectedly, “I’m used to it.”</p><p>“Al--Al--Alison, um--” the Captain started, but Julian barked a laugh and spoke over him.</p><p>“Look, there’s no need for alarm, it was just a spot of banter between--”</p><p>“Actually, he started it, so if you’re going to reprimand anyone--”</p><p>“--old acquaintances, nothing serious--”</p><p>“--it really should be him--”</p><p>“--and besides it’s not my bloody fault he’s wound tighter than a--”</p><p>“--on my deathday of <em> all </em>days--!”</p><p>“Alright, alright, alright, ENOUGH!” Alison bellowed, surprising both herself and her companions with the volume. “Cap,” she said, addressing him directly.</p><p>The man in question went ramrod straight, his foot stamping once against the floor as he stood to attention, looking past Alison’s shoulder respectfully. She wasn’t entirely sure why, after almost a century of stubbornly insisting upon being the group's <em>de facto</em> leader, the Captain so willingly treated her like a superior officer, but she supposed the bar at Button House was set quite low. Between a decapitated head and a literal caveman, there wasn’t much in the way of competition.</p><p>Still, she frowned with wary bemusement at his display. “Uh, right,” she said. “Yes. Well. Report -- uh -- soldier.”</p><p>“Of course,” the Captain agreed quickly, clearing his throat. “As I was saying before such an ungentlemanly interruption: today is my deathday. Deathday privileges, as we all know, include full control over the day’s itinerary and full creative freedom to make any amendments to the pre-prepared schedule, such as impromptu personal talks or demonstrations, entertainment -- including but not limited to: war documentaries, reruns of contemporary American situational comedies, full-length technicolour film productions--”</p><p>Julian tittered and the Captain’s explanation ground to a furious halt. “That’s only full-length anything you’ll see at this rate, mate.”</p><p>“Do you bally well mind, man? I’m trying to--” </p><p>“Oh, come on, <em> please </em>just get on with it! At this rate, I’ll be dead again before you get to the bloody point!”</p><p>Nostrils flaring, the Captain rounded on Julian, military posture abandoned as he clutched his own biceps tightly and squinted up at his adversary. “You know what your problem is? You’ve no respect for authority, Julian, no respect at all.”</p><p>“Respect? For you? Oh, don’t make me laugh.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t dream of making you laugh, sir, it’s worse than the strangled whinny of a wounded war horse just before it’s shot between the eyes--”</p><p>“Cap,” Alison interrupted again. “Just, get on with it, yeah?”</p><p>The Captain swung around again to face Alison, looking mortified once more, and nodded obediently.</p><p>“And Julian?” she added.</p><p>Julian mimicked the Captain's movement, though with far less gusto. “Hm?”</p><p>“Shut up.”</p><p>The resulting scowl was one of pure betrayal.</p><p>“Anyway, I was minding my own <em> business</em>,” the Captain continued, emphasising the word with Julian’s strange inflection and looking rather pleased with himself at the impression, “when this ruddy ingrate started heckling me. Now, bear in mind, please, the aforementioned rules, when I tell you that he did so in the <em> middle </em> of my presentation -- which, by the way, actually, everyone <em> was </em> enjoying, Julian, so you weren’t just ruining my fun, you were ruining everyone’s fun--”</p><p>It wasn’t clear at what point the Captain had stopped addressing her in his most disciplined tone and started addressing Julian in his most petty, but Alison was tiring of it quickly. </p><p>“Nobody was having any fun, you great pillock, because you’ve got all the charisma of a-- of a stuffy old military Captain with blue balls explaining the intricacies of inter-rank decorum to a room full of bored dead people--”</p><p>“If you would <em>kindly</em> refrain from continually making unfounded and frankly inappropriate assumptions about my personal life, Julian, I really would appreciate it,” the Captain growled, pausing only to sniff derisively. “Just because I’m not some Jane-crazy--”</p><p>The rest of his words faded into indiscernible sounds as Alison gave up and slunk toward the only person in the room capable of having a rational conversation. </p><p>“Humphrey?” she asked, sitting beside him on the pale green chaise longue. </p><p>Humphrey sighed long-sufferingly. With doleful blue eyes, he peered out at the erupting insanity. </p><p>Alison wondered at the sights he must have seen in all his years. Such sights as would turn a lesser man to stone, such tragedies as no poet nor playwright could ever hope to capture with language; griefs beyond utterance, quarrels beyond comprehension. The rise and fall of five hundred long years, filled with the deepest depths of human emotion, remembered now only by this lone witness with his deep ocean eyes.</p><p>Just when Alison thought he might not respond, he opened his mouth to speak, and she waited with baited breath to hear what poignant observation the sage head might make, what ponderous clarity he might cast over such a tense scene.</p><p>He cleared his throat. “Well, Julian,” Humphrey began quietly, voice low and conspiratorial, drawing Alison closer, “insinuated that the Captain had not, ah, experienced the… the carnality of conjugality, so to speak, nor the warmth of the fairer sex, ah, specifically.”</p><p>Alison stared at him until Humphrey met her gaze and saw her uncomprehending expression.</p><p>The disembodied head closed his eyes briefly, exasperated or embarrassed, and sucked in a breath through his teeth.</p><p>“Julian called him a virgin and a poofter,” he clarified.</p><p>Alison’s mesmerised expression fell clean off her face, replaced by her usual dead-eyed annoyance.</p><p>“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she muttered stonily, standing up so quickly that Humphrey’s head bounced clean off the seat again and rolled across the floor.</p><p>“Alison!” Humphrey called as he rolled far too close to the foot of the battle. “Wait, Alison! Don’t leave me here!”</p><p><em>Alas, poor Humphrey</em>, Alison thought, forced to leave him listening to the petty squabbling for what would surely feel like another five hundred years.</p><hr/><p>"So, are they always like that?" Alison questioned innocently, looking up at Thomas over her cup of steaming hot coffee.</p><p>The ghost in question, who could hardly believe Alison had asked him to ‘get coffee’, squinted suspiciously back at her. He made a show of pretending to hold the handle of his delicate china mug, little finger sticking out conspicuously, before answering. “To whom do you refer?”</p><p>He might have taken a sip of coffee for emphasis at that point, had he the ability to interact with the coffee at all.</p><p>Alison fixed him with a long, level look. “You know ‘to whom I refer’, Thomas.”</p><p>As if to rub his face in it, Alison took a very real sip from the ‘World’s Best Grandad’ mug that Mike had inherited and, for inexplicable reasons, brought with them to every flat and house. </p><p>On cue, Thomas sighed dramatically and looked wistfully out of the kitchen window.</p><p>Cold, grey light streamed from the late afternoon sky and half-passed through his ghostly, incorporeal body, making him shimmer strangely. The sunlight did not reflect off him as it did an embodied human, but instead seemed to be taken into him like a plant absorbs colour, his form faded and darker in the places pierced by shafts of light. For some reason, Alison thought, it suited him.</p><p>“Thomas,” Alison sighed, endeared to him briefly by the uncomfortable reminder of his non-existence. “There must be something that will shut them up.”</p><p>The poet scoffed and turned to meet her eye. “If there were, don’t you think we might have employed such a solution already? It’s just their nature, Alison. They’re brutes, the both of them. Wild animals with no sense of propriety.”</p><p>That didn’t sound much like the Captain to Alison, though she didn’t argue the point, as she supposed Thomas was right where Julian was concerned. </p><p>“They’ll never get along, so it’s pointless wishing so. These passions will pass soon, anyway, and then flare up, and then pass, and so on. Such is the nature of powerful feelings. It’s best to pay them no mind.” </p><p>“'No mind',” Alison echoed, thinking of the many sleepless nights she may have to spend listening to their arguments. “And they’ve always been like this? Ever since Julian died?”</p><p>“Ever since,” Thomas agreed. “The Captain never liked him. Now, we poets are well-acquainted with the ‘spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings’, as my esteemed colleague once described it, but they seem incapable of expunging such passions once they have been felt, trapped instead in an endless cycle of frustration and altercation. It is a reflection of their immaturity, both.”</p><p>“Expunge their passions? Thomas, when have you <em> ever </em> let go of anything? You keep referring to this,” she waved her hands vaguely in the direction of the kitchen table, the untouched coffee cup, and Pat and Robin playing chess not six feet away, “as a date, despite <em> all </em>evidence to the contrary.”</p><p>At the acknowledgement, both men grinned ludicrously wide and waved.</p><p>Thomas sniffed again, resolutely ignoring them while Alison made an abortive gesture somewhat resembling a wave. “Yes. Well. In my day, a date could-- could-- a date did not <em> necessarily </em>entail courtship. You could date, ah, your sister, for example, or-- or--”</p><p>“Nothing wrong with dating sister,” Robin interjected quietly, which Thomas again ignored impolitely, and Pat made a face at.</p><p>“Perhaps,” Thomas began again, “I do find it… <em> difficult </em>to expel certain unwanted feelings but… Well, it’s rather impossible without a quill and parchment, you know. I took for granted how cathartic it was to put pen to paper. As a ghost, one's only options are expressing one's feelings or-- or locking them away in one's head.”</p><p>Alison hadn’t thought about it like that.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Thomas,” she said slowly, and meant it.</p><p>But it also gave her an idea. A foolish, futile, doomed-to-fail idea.</p><p>“I have to go,” she announced, standing up so quickly her knees knocked against the table and sent lukewarm coffee flying in Thomas’ direction, who shrieked loudly and flinched.</p><p>“Happens to the best of us, mate,” she heard Pat mutter kindly, and caught Thomas' responding huff just before the front door shut behind her and she hurried off to the nearest corner shop.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Minutiae (The Captain’s Deathday)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>At 1700 hours on his 73rd deathday, the Captain could be found sitting alone in an oft-ignored room of Button House, where few ghosts dared to venture. Pat had once referred to it as, ‘definitely haunted, y’know, like <em> creepy </em>haunted’, while Alison had immediately described its ‘vibes’ as ‘bad’ the first and only time she’d entered, whatever that meant. Even Thomas, who was always on the lookout for a new brooding spot, stayed well clear of it. </p><p>The Captain, however, was made of sterner stuff, undeterred by the supposedly ‘bad vibes’ of the 1950s furniture, all dull drapery and cracked glass cabinets.</p><p>Well, that was the half of it, at least. </p><p>Exhaling slowly through his nostrils, he settled back into the armchair and closed his eyes, trying to imagine his fingers wrapped around a rich scotch in a fine, cut crystal tumbler. The very thought of it made him swallow involuntarily, still able to feel the fiery burn coursing down his throat, the way it lit his veins on fire.</p><p>In truth, the Captain had never much enjoyed the taste of it, but he always did like to disguise his masochism with bravado, no matter how deeply he tried to convince himself otherwise.<em> It’s strength</em>, he would tell himself, <em> not suffering. Not addiction.  </em></p><p>He remembered being equal parts transfixed and repulsed by the amber ambrosia swirling in the glass.</p><p>
  <em> Bravery, resilience, resistance.  </em>
</p><p>A knock at the door roused him from his thoughts suddenly, his imaginary scotch disappearing as his fingers curled into a fist and he sat bolt upright.</p><p>“Who’s there?”</p><p>When the door cracked open and a familiar flop of dirty blond hair appeared, the Captain felt his heart constrict. Julian was the last person he wanted to appear, but appear he did, so the Captain steeled himself and tightened his fist. </p><p>“Ah, so this is where you’ve been sulking,” Julian said by way of greeting, emerging fully into the room and leaving the door wide open. </p><p><em> Born in a ruddy barn</em>, the Captain thought, trying his very best not to scowl at the intruder. </p><p>“Pat’s been flapping about like a mother hen. Not sure what he thought had happened to you, given you’re already, uh, but y’know how he is.”</p><p>The Captain hummed in vague agreement as Julian sauntered into the room, looked about haughtily, and sniffed with derision. The Captain’s eyes followed him carefully as he wandered, repressing the panic he felt at the sight of Julian <em> looking</em>, looking so intently at a room that felt like the last living piece of his soul. </p><p>“Morose in here, eh?” Julian tried, not looking up from his inspection, hands clasped tightly behind his back. </p><p>Rather than reply, the Captain stood up and headed purposefully toward the door, stopping short only when he realised he couldn’t actually push it to with a nudge of his swagger stick as he’d planned. </p><p>It had been an odd, lingering fancy fuelled by muscle memory and the sight of Julian moving it. For a split second, he’d thought himself alive again. </p><p>“What do you want, Julian? I’m in no mood for more of your… Well, your you.”</p><p>He returned to the chair in two short strides, electing to stand beside it rather than sit.</p><p>Julian turned to face him with raised eyebrows and, for a while, the man was silent, glancing back once at the forgotten trinkets strewn messily about a display cabinet, ambling a few steps further around the room. The Captain's eyes were still glued to him, as though staring hard enough might help him to divine some secret motive. </p><p>Eventually, with a quiet sigh, Julian settled -- half-leaning, half-sitting -- against an old rosewood dresser, his shirt tails riding up slightly as he planted his hands either side of his body and leant back. He was not three paces away from the Captain now, who was suddenly glad to be standing.</p><p>When their eyes met again, the Captain’s fist was tighter than a double fisherman’s knot and Julian had already begun talking. </p><p>“I’ve been a very naughty boy,” he explained calmly, and an inexplicable spike of panic shot through the Captain’s chest. He seemed content to let the Captain stare at him; content to watch the laboured rise and fall of his ribcage, against which his heart hammered furiously.</p><p>Tongue darting out briefly to wet his dry lips, the Captain attempted a response, but only managed the first syllable of Julian’s name before having to clear his throat. “Didn’t you hear me, Julian? I said I’m in no mood for mockery.”</p><p>Julian tutted, the sound sharp and loud in the quiet room. “You always think the worst of me,” he groused, shoulders slumping. “I’ve been sent here to apologise for my bad behaviour.” The last two words were childishly and mockingly drawn out, but still a little subdued by Julian’s standards.</p><p>Was it relief he felt at the explanation, or disappointment? The feeling was elusive; each time he thought he’d caught it, it transfigured and slipped through his fingers. That seemed to happen a lot where Julian was concerned, and the Captain didn’t like it one bit. He knew his feelings toward the others; they were as precise, familiar, and detailed as annotated cities on a well-drawn map.</p><p>Julian was an illegible scrawl.</p><p>“Sent?” the Captain replied after the pause could stretch no longer. “Sent by whom?”</p><p>“By Alison, of course -- <em> Well</em>, she sent me to find you, but you don’t need a bloody arts degree to know subtext when you hear it. You don’t need an arts degree for anything, come to think of it, unless you’re running low on loo roll.”</p><p>Julian’s smug chuckle disguised the fact that his words were an olive branch, as clear as day. Julian knew that they shared a similar attitude toward poets and philosophers, but the Captain refused to smile; refused to give him an inch. </p><p>“Well,” the Captain said, clearing his throat again. “Right-o, then. Mission accomplished. You can let them know I’d rather spend the rest of the day alone.”</p><p>There was something strange written across Julian’s face in a language he did not speak. He focused on it intently to distract from the long, pale expanse of exposed leg just three feet lower.</p><p>“Alright,” Julian conceded, lifting a hand to gesture vaguely with it. “But Alison’s got you a present. You won’t like it, but she’s got you a present, and she’s quite excited.”</p><p>The Captain scoffed in disbelief. “Oh, I won’t, won’t I? And what makes you such an expert on my tastes all of a sudden, Julian?” </p><p>He hadn’t meant to spit the name with such venom.</p><p>“Thirty bloody years of living with you, that’s what,” Julian replied long-sufferingly, voice suddenly resembling its usual volume and boldness as he pushed off the dresser and stood tall again, ready to make an exit. “I’ll tell Alison where you are and leave you to it then, shall I?”</p><p>Jarred by the change in tone, the Captain recoiled ever-so-slightly. Julian’s signature smarm had returned, and with it came slightly more solid ground, but the way he’d switched it on so suddenly was disarming indeed.</p><p>“Uh, no -- no, don’t,” he replied, stumbling over his words in his haste to get them out. “I just want to be alone.” </p><p>Despite his best efforts to keep the desperation from his voice, he felt it crack slightly. Julian was just watching him, analysing him. It made his skin prickle.</p><p>“Alison won’t come, anyway,” the Captain added suddenly, trying to dispel the awkwardness of his vulnerability. “She hates this room. Threatened to have it boarded up when she first arrived.”</p><p>“Yes,” Julian agreed with a heavy exhale, “it is rather… Unsettling… though I can’t quite put my finger on it. Any secret ghosts we don’t know about? Another Jemima who lives under the floorboards, perhaps? Creepy incest cult from the 70s? Human experimentation victims?”</p><p>Begrudgingly, the Captain presented him with a tight smile. “No,” he said. “Just me.”</p><p>“Right,” Julian said, laughing a little. “Sure. Well. That’s a relief, eh.”</p><p>“Mm,” the Captain agreed, clearing his throat once again. </p><p>“Right then. I’ll be off.”</p><p>“Yes, yes, you, um, yes.”</p><p>“Leave you to it!”</p><p>“Yes! Yes, quite.”</p><p>“Well, I’ll just, um…”</p><p>The Captain was still smiling awkwardly when Julian eventually made a move for the door. It was almost too late by the time the Captain realised he’d been blocking Julian’s exit the whole time, but he managed to sidestep Julian just as the politician turned, mid-stride, to slip into a space between the Captain and an adjacent side table, which had briefly been his only means of escape. For a brief moment, the men were facing one another, far too close for comfort, and made all the more uncomfortable by a split second of shared eye contact. </p><p>Julian laughed again and placed a hand on the Captain’s shoulder to steady himself as he passed, thrown off-kilter by the Captain’s sudden movement. He felt his heart leap into his throat at the contact. It was just a brief touch, gone sooner than it arrived, but he found himself cataloguing the minutiae of it even as it occurred: the squeeze of Julian’s long fingers, the way his thumb slotted into the uniform-padded indentation of the Captain's collarbone, the ghost of warmth passing between two bodies no longer capable of producing it. </p><p>Then, Julian was gone, the Captain alone, the door still ajar.</p><hr/><p>It was late when the Captain eventually slunk into the common room. The pitch black of the sky seeped beyond the old windows and blanketed most of the room in darkness, skirting around the glow of the dying embers against which it could not hope to win. Robin lay curled by the dimming fire, his face half-lit by warm, orange light and half-cast in shadow. He was snoring softly. </p><p>A cursory glance over the dark room alerted him to several more slumbering forms barely visible in the gloom, but as his eyes adjusted he took stock of them: Robin, of course; Alison and her handsome Mike, curled together against the back of a couch, fingers half-entwined; Pat passed out in the crook of his own elbow at a table; Kitty, next to him, her face still propped up in her cupped hands despite being asleep; Thomas, sitting at the windowsill, his forehead touching the glass.</p><p>The Captain smiled a very fond smile at the sight of his friends and tried not to be disappointed by noticeable absences. </p><p>Unwilling to disturb them, he turned on his heel to leave again, but before he could do so, a quiet, sleepy voice whispered something.</p><p>Glancing back, he saw Alison shifting and blinking, rousing. He didn’t trust himself not to wake everyone with his unalterably loud voice, so he simply tilted his head and waited as she slipped out of Mike’s embrace and tiptoed her way to him, rubbing a hand across her face drowsily.</p><p>“I got you a present,” she told him softly. “Here.”</p><p>The Captain would never admit to being enthused by such frivolities, but the very fact that Alison cared enough to think of him did indeed move him. He followed her over to a table on which a little bag perched, overflowing with tissue paper. </p><p>“Two, actually,” she added quietly. “And it’s fine if you don’t like them. I just, well -- just open them.”</p><p>He looked at her, and after a beat, she said, “Oh! Sorry,” and reached into the bag for him. The first thing she removed was a small, box-shaped item. She turned it over in her hands and moved out the way of the firelight so he could see it more clearly.</p><p>“M...A...S...H?” he read, as softly as he could, a small frown indenting his forehead. </p><p>“Mash,” Alison said, nodding. “It’s an acronym for… Um, I don’t know what, actually. But it’s a comedy from the 50s -- about a war in America.”</p><p>“Oh?” he asked, suddenly intrigued. “Which one? Revolutionary? Civil?”</p><p>“No, it’s set in the 50s. The, um, war with…” Alison rubbed at her eye, willing her brain to wake up. “Korea. Korean war.”</p><p>He raised an interested eyebrow, studying the cover. Six people in shoddy, green uniforms looked back at him. </p><p>“A very thoughtful gift,” he acknowledged.</p><p>“And this,” said Alison, “was an impulse buy. Don’t judge it by its… Well, by its cover, obviously.”</p><p>The second thing she pulled out was roughly the same size, and when she set it down, he recognised it as a book. Alison placed a pen atop it and cleared her throat quietly, in a manner, he realised affectionately, that reminded him of his own tic.</p><p>“It’s a notebook,” she explained, staring at it. The Captain frowned and followed suit, looking intently at the object, wondering if Alison had somehow broken the laws of nature and found some kind of ghost-friendly notebook for him. </p><p>“Alison,” he said, “You know, I can’t…”</p><p>“Oh I know, I know. I know. The idea is that you dictate something to me and I’ll write it--”</p><p>The Captain bristled visibly, standing up straighter and looking baffled. “Out of the question,” he interrupted. </p><p>“No, hear me out, it’ll all be strictly confidential. Don’t even think of me as a person, just think of me as -- as a pen-- as, you know, a translator, I guess.”</p><p>But the Captain shook his head. “A diary,” he tutted. “No, Alison, I’m afraid not. The contents of my head are for my eyes and ears only. Nobody should be privy to the innermost thoughts of another’s mind.”</p><p>They realised simultaneously that the volume of their conversation had risen when someone made a sudden grunt of disturbance. </p><p>Alison was quiet for a long moment to ensure nobody woke up, and then continued, returned to the hush tones. “Just give it a try, Cap. I think it’d be good for you.”</p><p>But he could not be deterred. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you’ve wasted your precious shillings on this. Perhaps you could give it to Thomas. I’m sure he would get more use out of it”</p><p>A dead-eyed stare told him what he already knew: that Alison would do no such thing.</p><p>“Thank you for the documentary, though, it looks splendidly--”</p><p>“No, no,” she said. “It’s not a documentary, Cap. Not a documentary. It’s a comedy.”</p><p>“A comedy?” he hissed through his teeth, looking affronted. “About a <em> war</em>? What kind of lowlife degenerate could possibly find humour in such bleak suffering?”</p><p>When Alison only smiled apologetically at him, he wondered idly if Julian might watch it with him.</p><hr/><p>Sleep eluded him that night.</p><p>The Captain found himself replaying his short encounter with Julian over and over in his mind, looking for something he might have missed, some detail that would spool the disparate moments together into a scene that made complete sense. </p><p>The physicality of Julian seemed to haunt and vex him -- something in his physicality, yes, therein lay the rub. It was this line of thought that eventually prompted him to recall a small detail he had overlooked. </p><p>They were ghosts. </p><p><em> You didn’t have to touch me</em>, the Captain found himself thinking, unable to tell which feeling brought the words to the surface, so they became both accusation and admission.</p><p><em> You didn’t have to touch me</em>.</p><p>Perhaps Julian, like the Captain, had moments of forgetting, too; forgetting that he, for the most part, could not touch the world. </p><p>But, perhaps…</p><p>
  <em> Perhaps, perhaps.</em>
</p><p>He turned his thoughts from it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Did We Start the Fire? (Interlude)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>danke schön to Lau for helping me hash out the many, many issues this chapter had</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Thomas sighed. </p><p><em> Never a moment’s peace</em>, he thought. <em> Not one drop of blissful solitude falls upon these withered petals of mine. Am I doomed to share my eternal slumber with the inmates of Bethlem Hospital? With these knaves of disorder? Oh, my kingdom for a drawing room, a quill, and a spot of solitude. </em></p><p>Another sigh almost slipped from his mouth as he stared out at the grounds, but he suppressed it with great effort.<em> At least I have the rain to soothe my abuséd ears</em>.</p><p>It was autumn; the poet’s season. September had been and gone, taking with it the last of the tentative tranquillity that had settled briefly over Button House. Thomas had been mentally composing a poem, an ‘Ode to October’, when all hell had broken loose downstairs, signalling the end of the unspoken peace treaty and drowning out the record Alison had kindly put on for him. </p><p>Oh, his sweet Alison. She had seemed thoroughly convinced he would enjoy the record, given that he had so enjoyed the talents of the composer Robert Smith and his orchestra (known colloquially as <em> The Cure</em>). However, Thomas found this new record to be utterly miserable. There was naught worse, in his humble opinion, than a self-pitying man without self-awareness -- <em> especially </em>when such a man inflicted his ceaseless whining upon others. </p><p><em> I shall have to have a word with my Alison about the composer Morrissey</em>, he mused. <em> Perhaps she could enlighten my ignorance, or I hers, through lively debate. Oh, there is nothing so intimate as a passionate intellectual discussion between two minds who share one soul -- the raging war between logic and emotion made flesh! </em></p><p>A thrill ran down his spine at the thought of such stimulating discourse, but such fancies were immediately interrupted by the sound of the Captain’s booming voice rising through the old floorboards, his unintelligible shouts followed by a chorus of other cries. </p><p>With a great flapping of his be-frilled arms, Thomas stormed indignantly out of the room and headed straight for the main staircase. As he descended, the poet became aware of an awful musical cacophony shaking the very stone foundations of their humble abode.</p><p>A wave of noise washed over Thomas’ stunned countenance when crossed the threshold between hallway and common room. The offending music beat furiously against his eardrums, accompanied by the Captain’s bellowing, Pat prattling on beside him, Robin grunting in protest, Alison attempting to mediate, Mike asking bemused questions, and, unsurprisingly, Julian cutting in with glib remarks. Apart from Robin, who occupied a table away from the rabble, they stood in a vague semi-circle around the music player toward the centre of the room, their backs to Thomas’ arrival.</p><p>"It's just really not that difficult, mate," Pat was saying. "It's actually the easiest verse by a country mile!"</p><p>Julian was shaking his head and gesticulated with two raised fists, thumbs pointing outwards. "Pat, Pat, listen to me--"</p><p>"Excuse me," Thomas tried incredulously, voice inaudible amongst the overlapping voices.</p><p>"You <em> chose </em> it, too!" Pat shrieked.</p><p>"I did no such thing! This verse was <em> foisted </em>on me--"</p><p>"You bally well did, man! We all heard you!"</p><p>"You <em> said</em>," Pat seethed, casting a grateful glance at the Captain for his support, "you wanted to sing the verse about British politician sex!"</p><p>"-- I -- I don't recall to that, Pat -- I -- I never signed anything. Why would I say that? I mean, y’know, it's bad enough being reminded of my death at all, let alone having to relive it through song--"</p><p>"Julian, you do know you're not actually the reference in this song?" Alison interjected. "It was written before you--"</p><p>"Excuse me!" Thomas attempted again, slightly louder.</p><p>"I don't know <em> why </em> you'd say it, you -- you wazzock--"</p><p>"--died so he couldn't possibly have--"</p><p>"Look, if I <em> don't </em> -- <em> remember </em> -- <em> saying </em> -- <em> it </em>," Julian snapped, adopting his peculiar House of Commons voice and slapping the back of one hand into the palm of his other for emphasis, "and you've no signed proof -- it's simply not admissible in a court of law!"</p><p>"There's three witnesses!" Pat retorted, moustache twitching furiously.</p><p>"Four!" Robin grumbled from his chess board on the other side of the room.</p><p>"<em>Four </em> w--"</p><p>"<em>Excuse me!</em>" Thomas shouted, stomping his foot and finally making himself heard over the din.</p><p>They all quieted in stunned unison and turned around to blink owlishly at him, as though they’d quite forgotten he existed at all. Alison moved to turn the music off and Pat greeted him with a quick smile, seemingly grateful for the distraction.</p><p>“A fresh perspective!” </p><p>The music cut out as Pat shuffled over to him and the others’, blissfully silent now, followed his beeline with their eyes. The man looked relieved to no longer be in Julian’s immediate vicinity. </p><p>“Oh, good,” Julian moaned, voice twice as grating without the music to drown it out. “Yes, excellent, why not -- ask the jobless nineteenth-century milksop his bloody opinion.” </p><p>“Yes, why not,” Pat was agreeing, pretending to be ignorant of Julian’s sarcasm. “It can’t hurt to have an outside opinion, can it?”</p><p>“Actually,” Julian began and, oh Lord, Julian was advancing on Thomas and Pat now, pointing with one curled index finger, “it’s funny you should say that, Patrick, because as it so happens, outside opinion can be <em> very </em>harmful to democracy indeed. I mean, if everyone got a say, well, well, that would be anarchy. No, best to leave it to an impenetrable circle of elites with shared values and a similar mindset. The less arguing the better, I’d say--”</p><p>“If that’s true, Julian,” Pat replied, laughing nervously to hide his contempt and refusing to look Julian in the eye, “why are you the most argumentative of everyone?”</p><p>“<em>Because</em>, Patrick, <em> because--</em>” Julian oozed, a jab of his thumb punctuating each word, "I'm the most qualified, actually, to-- to-- um, actually-- to--"</p><p>"Is this," Thomas interjected firmly, when he noticed the ridiculous stammering was going nowhere, "Are you hosting…music club? Without me?"</p><p>The way Julian shifted his attention to Thomas so suddenly made the poet wish he hadn't spoken. The man regarded him with condescension. "Twentieth centuries only, I'm afraid, chum," he said, smiling widely and adjusting the knot of his tie. </p><p>Thomas wished he could strangle him with it. His fists clenched on either side of his waistcoat.</p><p>"Twentieth century?" he repeated, incredulous. "<em>Robin </em> is here!"</p><p>"Hey!" Robin grunted from somewhere on the other side of the room. "I here first!"</p><p>"Thomas," he heard Alison say as she approached the three squabbling men with Mike in tow. Thomas swivelled immediately toward her, still scowling from having to look at Julian's smug face for too long. "It's not music club, it's, uh, it's technically<em> a </em>music club, but it’s more of a... Well, apart from a gigantic waste of my time, it's sort of an educational... erm..."</p><p>Pat, who had been nodding vigorously along with Alison's floundering explanation, jumped in to save her. "Y’see," he said, "Julian had this idea, right," Thomas' frown deepened, his gaze cutting briefly to the intolerable man in question, "to get us lot, you know, the twentieth century lot, get us together to learn about all the events we missed -- just the important ones, mind -- through this song -- it’s a good ‘un, actually -- ‘cause it covers quite a lot of them--"</p><p>"What's going on?" Mike asked Alison quietly. </p><p>Pat's babbling receded into the background of Thomas’ consciousness as he instead became hyper-aware of Alison's fond hushing, the way she touched Mike's shoulder, called him "babe" in her brief, whispered explanation of the unseen scene.</p><p>Before he could fall too deeply into that particular rabbit hole of despair, the Captain's sudden presence beside Julian returned Thomas’ attention to the conversation at hand.</p><p>"I fail to see why I have been excluded," Thomas moaned suddenly, having tuned Pat out so thoroughly that he had no idea whether he'd cut the other man off mid-explanation or not. "I'm a part of this household, too, aren't I?"</p><p>It was intended to be a rhetorical question, the answer so obvious that it would surely shame them all into submission, but instead it just sounded pathetic. Thomas caught the way Julian met the Captain's eye, the way they shared a mocking glance, then saw Alison turn to Mike with the very same look. Thomas wasn't sure which was worse: these moments of camaraderie against him or the pity with which Pat regarded him.</p><p>"It's not like that, mate," Pat said, and must have noticed Julian's eye rolling from the corner of his eye, because he addressed the others next. "<em>Is </em> it?" he pleaded. "Guys?"</p><p>A non-committal chorus of grunting and stammering erupted.</p><p>When Robin chimed in with something unintelligible, Julian and the Captain looked briefly at one another again, rolling their eyes impatiently. Thomas felt a spike of envy. Why did nobody ever give him that look? <em> The </em> look? The ‘it’s-you-and-me-against-these-plebeians' look?</p><p>"Alison?" Mike said again, his gaze trailing around the room but landing on none of the ghosts. "What's happening now?"</p><p>"Erm," she replied, attempting to keep her voice quieter than the half-hearted disagreement that was brewing between Pat and the Captain. "Thomas is upset we didn't include him."</p><p>“Thomas?” Mike thought about it for a moment, then dropped his voice. “Whiny poet?”</p><p>Alison’s gaze slid to Thomas and, upon registering Thomas’ heavy gaze, pursed her lips and pressed a finger to them with a subtle shake of her head.</p><p>"Oh," was all Mike said, still looking around blindly.</p><p>Thomas just didn't understand it. </p><p>Mike couldn't even <em> see </em>the ghosts to know which of them he was supposed to roll his eyes at in sympathy; and Julian and the Captain didn't even like each other!</p><p>"Look," Mike started, attempting to address the ghosts but pitching his voice too low to be heard over Pat trying to make a case for the concept of inclusion while Julian and the Captain argued firmly in favour of exclusion.</p><p>"Louder, babe."</p><p>"Oh. LOOK!" he tried again, twice as loud, and the squabbling ended at once. They all looked first at Mike and then at Alison to translate their reaction.</p><p>"Okay," Alison said, flashing him a thumbs up. "Go for it."</p><p>"Right, uh, ghosts. If Thomas wants to join in, he's more than welcome to my verse. It's actually quite weird to perform a song with people I can't even see. I mean, you could all be laughing at me, and I wouldn't even know, so…"</p><p>Julian tittered and moved to rest his arm on the Captain's shoulder nonchalantly. "Well, I didn't want to say anything--"</p><p>"But you will," the Captain intercepted irritably, looking perturbed by the unprompted physical contact.</p><p>"But I will," Julian agreed. "His timing really leaves a lot to be desired. Billy Joel would be turning in his grave if he could--"</p><p>"Billy Joel's not dead, Julian," corrected Alison, earning her a confused look from Mike.</p><p>"<em>What? </em>"</p><p>"I think we're rather getting away from ourselves here, chaps," the Captain chimed in, bouncing impatiently on his heels. If it was an attempt at shaking Julian off, it failed, but he pressed on regardless, “Now, if Michael is happy to relinquish his--”</p><p>“Hang on, hang on-- he’s alive? Well, who am I thinking of then?”</p><p>“Julian, please, can we get back to the matter at hand? I believe Thomas would be an acceptable, if less experienced, substitute--”</p><p>“Elton? Am I thinking of Elton?”</p><p>Alison stared incredulously. “How could you possibly -- they’re entirely different people -- and besides, he’s still alive, too!”</p><p>“Ernest Elton?” the Captain asked, at once far more interested and far more confused.</p><p>“Is… is he earnest?! Pat wondered aloud, “I thought he was just--” </p><p>“No, you <em> berk</em>, not fighter-ace-Elton. Elton <em> John </em>! You know, straight in the 60s, bisexual in the 70s, fully flaming gay-as-Hampstead-Heath in the late 80s -- that Elton. With the piano!”</p><p>“Oh!” Pat yelped suddenly. “Oh, did he come out, then? Oh, how lovely.” He smiled to himself. “I’m dead chuffed for him, actually, yeah. He seems like a top bloke.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Julian continued, waving a hand dismissively. “He married that German broad, you know the one..?”</p><p>“Oh no, no, that were after my time. Last I knew he ditched that poor secretary just before the weddin'.”</p><p>“Oh, right, right, of course. Well, he married a different one in the end -- really ugly woman, actually, probably could have turned me gay, too. Anyway, it lasted about a day, I think, or at least until he had to, erm, perform, and then, uh… Can’t remember, actually. Probably married a man. I don’t know. The late 80s were a bit of a blur.” </p><p>Julian mimed drinking and laughed one of his big, over-compensating laughs that Thomas hated. For some unfathomable reason, Pat seemed totally enthralled, their previous animosity all but forgotten.</p><p>The Captain, however, was quickly losing whatever was left of his patience. </p><p><em> Ah</em>, Thomas thought, <em> how fickle the brief covenants of man! How brittle!  </em></p><p>Thomas tried to catch someone's eye so that they might share <em> the look </em> in a moment of anti-Julian solidarity, however temporary the allegiance might be, but it was not to be. Alison was watching the Captain too closely, who in turn was standing stiffly and staring hard at the ground, his drill stick clutched so firmly in his fist that Thomas feared it would snap.</p><p>"--But I did go to his 42nd birthday party in 1989," Julian was saying. "Cracking time. Paris. Boy George was there, which was hilarious because it was a fancy dress party, y'know, and I’d gone dressed as him. Apparently Elton treated us all to a tinkle on the old piano but I missed it because I was, um, occupied with a girl who actually <em> had </em>mistaken me for Boy George, but -- or, was it a guy? God, it could have been Boy George himself, but it really didn’t matter, because whoever they were, their mouth--"</p><p>"Hold the phone,” Pat cut in. “You went as Boy George? Like, Culture Club Boy George? <em> You</em>?"</p><p>Thomas was impossibly lost. </p><p>"Now they're talking about Boy George," Alison told Mike, adding, "Don't ask why," just as Mike opened his mouth. </p><p>"There's no need to act so surprised," Julian groused. “I looked quite fetching in lipstick. I had to hide from all the photographers, of course. It was the same year I was elected and my father had already buried one fancy dress scandal for me--”</p><p>“Hardly, scandalous, is it? Lipstick?” Alison commented. </p><p>“Maybe not for a bloody liberal.”</p><p>Thomas felt a brief kinship with Mike's bemusement as the man looked sightlessly around the room, his gaze passing straight through the ghosts, but the kinship dissolved just as soon as Mike threaded his fingers with Alison's. </p><p>Distantly, Thomas registered Julian's abrasive voice describing a 'leaning tower of Pisa', his forearm slipping from the Captain’s shoulder in order to demonstrate something profane with his hands.</p><p>"In those days, y'know, girls were boys, boys were girls, gay was the new straight," Julian wittered on, oblivious to the Captain’s thunderous look and heaving chest. Then, as if witnessing a railway accident in slow motion, Thomas watched him clasp a hand on the Captain's shoulder and shake it firmly for emphasis. Julian’s free hand formed a fist with which to punch the air as he blithely continued, "Every hole was a goal!”</p><p>Even Thomas knew what would happen next. </p><p>It was all he could do to pre-emptively flinch.</p><p>"GOOD GOD, MAN,” the Captain roared, sucking all the air out of the room, “is there no <em> end </em>to your perversions?" When he tore himself bodily out of Julian's grasp, Thomas felt his entire body freeze up and saw Pat jump out of his skin from the corner of his eye.</p><p>"Have you no <em> shame</em>?” the Captain went on. “It's bad enough you <em> insist </em> on making us all privy to your unrepentant indecencies, but by <em> Jove</em>, I shan’t stand here and let you drag my good name through the mud with-- with whatever it is you’re insinuating!"</p><p>Julian seemed only briefly surprised by the outburst and then utterly unfazed by the swagger stick pointed directly at his chest. The look in his eyes bordered on triumphant, if anything, as his gaze travelled slowly from the Captain’s face to the object mere centimetres away from touching his body.</p><p><em> Such passionate contempt</em>, Thomas mused, breath caught in his chest as though he had a front row seat to a gladiator contest at the Colosseum. <em>They make Theseus and Asterius look like bosom friends</em>. </p><p>"Hit a nerve there, have I, old boy?"</p><p>It took only the slightest of movements for Julian to lean forward and let the tip of the Captain’s stick rest against his chest.</p><p>
  <em> Or Byron and I. </em>
</p><p>Thomas could not understand how Julian was so calm, nor why he insisted on riling up the Captain in the first place. It was as though he did it for the simple pleasure of getting under the other man’s skin, as though he enjoyed the monumental ire he always managed to incite.</p><p>The men in question, on whom everyone’s attention was now acutely trained, stared one another down, the tension thick enough to set Thomas’ little heart a-flutter.</p><p>Thomas was quite sure the Captain was about to strike Julian, if the tightness in his jaw was anything to go by. It would certainly be deserved, and Thomas found himself anticipating the blow with baited breath, as giddy now as he was anxious. His eyes remained fixed on the Captain’s drill stick, which shook with the tremor of his hand.</p><p>It was a great let-down, then, when the Captain merely snatched the stick from Julian’s personal space, turned on his heel, and disappeared through the nearest wall without another word.</p><p>With the tension dissipating so differently to how he’d expected, Thomas caught the eye of both Pat and Alison, each of whom looked as confused as he. None looked quite so perplexed as Julian, though, who must have been leaning against the stick with some force because its sudden removal had almost toppled him. Thomas thought he might make some kind of cutting remark, but none came. </p><p>Instead, it was Pat who opened his mouth to speak, and Alison who beat him to it. </p><p>“I’ll go,” she told him, and then, to Mike, added, “Ghost emergency.”</p><p>As Thomas watched her rush from the room to find their missing leader, Robin appeared in her place, scratching his neck.</p><p>“What I want know,” Robin mumbled, after a few beats of silence, “is who <em> did </em>start fire?”</p><p>Julian rolled his eyes.</p><p>Pat had more patience. He adjusted his glasses with a wiggle of his eyebrows, then turned to face his prehistoric friend. “Reckon that were your lot, actually, Robin. Although--”</p><p>“It’s a <em>metaphor</em>, you utter prat,” Julian bit out, sounding genuinely irate but still looking at the wall. It was so uncharacteristically humourless, so utterly genuine in its emotion, so lacking in pretence, that it shocked Thomas far more than the Captain’s outburst. </p><p>Nobody had a chance to press Julian on it, though, because he immediately stalked away and vanished out of a door on the other side of the room, smoothing his blond hair down with the palm of his hand as he went.</p><p>Thomas looked at Pat. </p><p>Pat met his eye. </p><p><em> Unbelievable </em>, the raised eyebrow seemed to say, and Thomas felt giddy. </p><p>In fact, he got so swept up in the excitement of sharing the much-coveted ‘look’ that he burst into an amiable grin, and Pat’s sympathy fell clean off his face, replaced by a disbelieving glower and a disappointed shake of his head.</p><p>
  <em> ...FIE! </em>
</p><hr/><p>“Are you sure, Cap? I know I said--”</p><p>Alison’s voice was muffled.</p><p>Thomas pressed his ear closer to the wooden door, heart racing with the excitement of eavesdropping.</p><p>“Yes, Alison,” came the Captain’s muted response. “I know what you said, too, and I’m holding you to it.”</p><p><em> Such drama! </em> Thomas thought, enthralled. <em> Such intrigue as rivals the hallowed pages of Miss Austen herself. </em></p><p>“Open the diary, if you’d be so kind.”</p><p><em> Diary? </em> </p><p>A spike of betrayal ran through him. </p><p>"Alright," he heard her say. "If you're sure..."</p><p>
  <em> How could she treat us with such inegalitarian bias? How could she deprive me of a personal diary, yet offer it to him so freely? </em>
</p><p>The Captain cleared his throat. “15:34 on the 2nd of October, 2020. Captain’s logbook, entry one. An evaluation of the character of one Julian Fawcett, former MP--”</p><p>Utterly disinterested, Thomas extricated himself from his prying spot with a melodramatic huff and headed for straight the staircase, his thoughts turning to the scathing poetry he would soon compose in his favourite sighing spot.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Crown Jules (Julian’s Deathday, part I)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you Vee for believing in this dumpster fire and for letting me use that AA joke of yours. also thank you to da 18+ disk hoard for being so supportive and hilarious, I love you all</p><p>I'm sorry this chapter is ludicrously long, I really tried to make it more succinct but I have spent SO long editing that if I don't post it soon I'll just get bored/frustrated and never finish it so this is painfully imperfect but..... enjoy!</p><p>also at the risk of sounding unbelievably self-absorbed, I've started making a sort of companion playlist for this fic: <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0F2MHvmmVw6oRGSvJ7Ehvm?si=947pXVKCQZmcBPqcAhnovw">click here!</a> it was just for my own reference initially but I thought others might enjoy it, too</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Days passed, then weeks, fortnights, and soon whole months had gone by since his last spat with the Captain. The gold and russet leaves of autumn had spiralled to the ground, trodden into beige mulch by Mike and Alison’s endless outdoor toiling, until the trees were stripped and bare. Before they knew it, a thin layer of frost had enshrined the jade-hued holly leaves, the coat rack was piled high with scarves and hats, and winter was well and truly upon them. </p><p>And as the nights grew longer and the days shorter, Julian found himself distracted by the imminent anniversary of his death. </p><p>The fact of the matter was that Julian could have died any day, the way he'd been going on. That it fell on Christmas Day was pure coincidence, and not an indication that he was the anti-Christ, as Mary had helpfully suggested, just a deeply unhappy and irresponsible man who had preferred to spend Christmas weekend, 1993, snorting white lines off antique coffee tables than at home with his wife and child. </p><p>Such information had not helped his case at all, but in the end Mary had agreed to disagree and gone about her business, whatever that entailed, and Julian had agreed to observe his deathday on Boxing Day for the foreseeable future, which had been the original point of contention among the group. Julian couldn’t really say for certain whether he’d died on the night of the twenty-fifth or in the early hours of the twenty-sixth anyway, especially as none of the others would admit to being a witness, and it wasn’t as though he felt any affinity with the anniversary. At best, it was the less exciting of two days a year when everyone actually had to spend some time with him and at worst, he missed booze and blacking out, naked, in strangers’ bathrooms at 4am. </p><p>This year, though, things were a little different. A world of possibility had been foisted upon them when Alison arrived, and with it came dreaded change. </p><p>Julian was certainly not the pearl-clutching prude that many of his party associates had been, but he was still deeply conservative in nature and reluctant to change his ways. Thirty years of Pat awkwardly clasping his shoulder, Robin letting him win at chess, and Fanny only tutting mildly at his dirty jokes had been sufficient acknowledgement of the unsavoury date, and while he was undeniably excited at the prospect of a little merrymaking this time around, he did fear what might be unearthed if Alison should start rooting around or -- God forbid -- attempting to ‘talk about it’.</p><hr/><p>It was a crisp, cold morning when Fanny’s blood-curdling scream stirred the house from its slumber and the events of the previous day began to feel like a distant dream. By mid-morning, Mike’s family had packed their bags and said their goodbyes, the Captain had shaved a few non-existent seconds off his morning run, and the place had returned to a state of relative normality, for which Julian was profoundly grateful.</p><p>Christmas Day itself had been eventful this year; full of revelations, epiphanies, realisations, and the like -- everything Julian had wanted to avoid. An exhausting ordeal, all in all, without so much as a happy ending for his trouble. It had been his very own <em>A Christmas Carol</em>, except that he’d been given the part of Jacob Marley: a man trapped in purgatory forever, too late to atone for his wicked ways, merely a pawn in the chess game of someone else’s redemption.</p><p>It was a good thing, then, that Julian had never liked Dickens’ obsession with poverty nor his excessively miserable prose, and was therefore happy to move onto his deathday revelries without a second thought. If getting through the rest of his afterlife meant having to re-bury all the bothersome little emotions that Christmas had dredged up -- well, Julian could, in a manner of speaking, live with that. It hardly made him the most repressed ghost in the house, anyway. Not by a long shot.</p><p>“Do you get morning breath as a ghost, then?”</p><p>A beat passed, and then Julian looked up from where he was stooped over the morning paper, legs spread ostentatiously beneath the kitchen table. “What?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Alison admitted. “I’m just making small talk. It’s quite boring waiting for you to finish that article just so I can turn the page for you, to be honest.”</p><p>“Hm.” Julian returned his gaze to the paper with a smile. “You have my deepest sympathies.”</p><p>“So how are they, the foxes? Or the badgers? Or whatever animal your party is terrorising this week?” </p><p>Julian tutted quietly and shook his head, only half-listening to her. “It’s the badgers,” he replied dejectedly. </p><p>“Oh.” From the corner of his eye, he could see Alison shift in her seat uncomfortably. “I didn’t realise it bothered you.”</p><p>“Of course it bothers me.”</p><p>She narrowed her eyes. “Right. Of course it does. It’s just -- historically, Julian, you haven’t actually shown much compassion for animals, have you? Or any compassion at all -- for anything, really.”</p><p>“Compassion?” he echoed, looking up quizzically. “What? No, no -- God, no! They’re <em> banning </em>the badger culls next year. It’s terrible news.”</p><p>Alison made a noise of complaint, crossed her arms on the table, and buried her forehead against them. “You’re actually hopeless."</p><p>“Good morning, Julian,” came a stern voice from the doorway, “Alison…?” </p><p>Julian looked up to see the Captain with his hands clasped behind his back, surveying the kitchen with a meticulous eye. Julian regarded him with a raise of his eyebrows and made a quiet noise of acknowledgement before returning his attention to the cattle slaughtering statistics. </p><p>Alison, however, was already halfway out of her seat. “Oh, good, hello, Cap. Listen, I promised Mike I’d help with the, uh, living room.”</p><p>“The living room?” the Captain asked, perplexed, and Julian kept his eyes fixed very firmly on the small print, pretending not to notice the supposedly subtle gestures of desperation Alison made at the Captain, nor the Captain’s noises of floundering confusion. “Ah, right, the living room,” he added eventually, sounding far less sure of himself than he had a few moments prior. “Yes, well, jolly good.”</p><p>“Great. If you need me, you know where to find me. Play nice!”</p><p>Julian inhaled deeply and ignored Alison’s quiet, “Tag, you’re it,” to the Captain on her way out.</p><p>A relative quiet settled in her absence, punctuated only by the Captain muttering gruffly under his breath and the tick of the old grandfather clock in the hallway. Julian crossed one leg over the other and leant further forward to rest his elbow against his thigh and his chin against his palm.</p><p>“You can leave, if you like,” he told the Captain. “I won’t tell her.”</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>Julian looked up again just in time to see the Captain’s eyes flitting away from his exposed legs, consternation etched into the lines of his rugged face.</p><p>
  <em> Oh, come on. There’s desperation and then there’s that. </em>
</p><p>“Are you alright there, mate?” Julian enquired, sitting up a little straighter and tilting his head in parodic coyness. “You seem a little distracted.”</p><p>“What?” the Captain retorted quickly, looking guilty. The man made a show of clearing his throat and looking around the room rather than meeting Julian’s eye. “No, I… I… I mean yes, yes. Fine. Dandy. Um.”</p><p>The Captain took a few measured steps forward, but seemed to think better of sitting at the table, and began to approach the large window instead.</p><p>“I wanted to catch you, actually. I wanted to…” When he cleared his throat again, Julian wondered if he should start some kind of tally, or perhaps a betting ring. “Look, I know it’s been a few months since… since… and I just -- I thought it might be time to bury the hatchet, so to speak, if you’re, ah, amenable.”</p><p>Julian squinted thoughtfully at the Captain’s back as the man spoke. “I was under the impression we’d already kissed and made up,” he replied, quickly glancing back at his newspaper with wide eyes when the Captain turned around to look at him sharply. “So to speak.”</p><p>“Mm,” the Captain said after a moment. “Well. That’s settled, then, I suppose.” </p><p>Julian said nothing. Whether or not it was settled was rather a matter of perspective. </p><p>Three months ago, after his flight from not-music club, something had changed in the Captain’s demeanour. The dust had settled, as it always did, and there’d been no apologies, which there never were. The Captain had made a valiant effort to avoid him for as long as possible, but eventually, inevitably, they’d fallen awkwardly back into their old ways, alternately squabbling over something-or-nothing and hatching unethical schemes together, their tiff swept under the rug, all but forgotten. </p><p>After that, the Captain had been far harder to provoke beyond annoyance. Sometimes his moustache would still twitch irritably at Julian’s words, or he’d sigh in exasperation, but the Captain had shut some kind of metaphorical door in his head, leaving Julian on the other side of it: perplexed, trouserless, and quite unwilling to address how the whole thing made him feel. Not all that different from how most of his relationships had ended, come to think of it.</p><p>“Ah, now then,” the Captain continued after a lengthy silence from Julian. “There’s another matter at hand. I shan’t be partaking in this evening’s festivities.”</p><p>It was Julian’s turn to snap his head. “Wha-a-at?” he demanded, determined to keep the tinge of desperation out of his voice. “You’re not serious.”</p><p>The Captain sighed and met Julian’s eye. “Steady on, chap, it’s not--”</p><p>“If you don’t come--”</p><p>“--because of--”</p><p>“--that’s it, nobody will!” </p><p>“What?” The Captain frowned. “Of course they will.”</p><p>Julian sat up and sunk back into the wooden chair, loosening the cross of his legs so that his ankle rested atop his knee. “No, they won’t,” he pouted. “If one person doesn’t take part, that’ll be it -- the floodgates will have been opened!” </p><p>The Captain grumbled impatiently under his breath. "Mm, yes, well. You rather underestimate how excited some of them are for your juvenile parlour games, I think.”</p><p>“As they should be," Julian said. "I mean, we finally have someone who can spin the bottle.” There was a pause, and then he added, “Frankly, you’re lucky I didn’t suggest the strip version.” </p><p>“Good lord, Julian,” the Captain muttered, reddening. “You know that wouldn’t even work, we can’t…” The man cleared his throat and pretended to watch flecks of snow fall from the grey-white sky.</p><p>Julian smiled to himself and wondered at the strangeness of a ghost blushing.</p><p><em> Does it travel? </em> he thought, as his gaze dropped curiously to the Captain’s throat, then lower still, trying to picture a full-body flush. Probably it suited his complexion in a way it had never suited Julian’s. Good thing he was difficult to embarrass. </p><p>By the time the Captain looked back, Julian’s gaze had wandered all the way to his navel. He blinked into a frown, meeting the Captain’s eye, who looked just as perplexed, and then made a face. </p><p>“Sorry,” he said, unabashed and grimacing slightly. “I was just undressing you with my eyes. Not a pretty sight, as it turns out, so I’ll count my lucky stars we can’t get our kit off, eh?”</p><p>The phantom blush deepened as the Captain set his jaw and raised his chin. “You--” </p><p>“Look,” Julian interrupted sweepingly, standing to join the Captain and attempting to diffuse the brewing tension with a wave of his hand, “You simply <em> have </em>to come. I need you there.” </p><p>The Captain, whose mood began to loosen slightly at the brusque change in topic, leant against the wall and watched Julian come to a halt on the other side of the window frame, his chin dropping again to peer at the politician thoughtfully. </p><p>“I’m not going to beg,” Julian continued, “but I am willing to say ‘please’ very quietly under my breath, if that’s what it takes. As long as you don’t tell anyone.” </p><p>A very slight smile lifted one side of the Captain's mouth, skewing his moustache, before he responded, “I’ll spare you the humiliation, old boy.”</p><p>The light from the mid-morning sun cut across his handsome, angular face in elongated squares, interrupted by the muntins that split the window into quarters, deepening the soft crinkle of his crow’s feet. There was something profoundly and distractingly sentimental about it; something so awfully quaint. Thomas would have liked it -- perhaps even waxed poetic about it, something about war and beauty and pastoral ideals -- but it only made Julian want to run very far away, very fast.</p><p>For all the cruelty Julian showed the Captain, he really was frightfully fond of the man, but fondness had never gotten Julian Fawcett, MP, anywhere in life, so he saw no reason to indulge it in death.</p><p>“Gracious of you,” he muttered, a little too late for it to be conspicuous and a little too dazed to come off as sardonic. “So you’ll be there?”</p><p>Defeated, the Captain sighed and pressed his lips together into a thin line, though Julian thought he could still see the ghost of a smile beneath it. “I shall be there--”</p><p>“YES!” Julian exclaimed, punching the air triumphantly. “Get in!”</p><p>“--but I shan't take part in any of the -- the indecency!” the Captain clarified quickly, alarmed by the enthusiasm. </p><p>“By indecency--?” </p><p>“Fraternising, Julian.” The Captain revealed his drill stick from his underarm and pointed it at the man in accusation. “<em> Hobnobbing </em>.” </p><p>“Hobnobbing?” The politician’s eyebrows shot to his hairline and he crossed his arms across his chest. “God, I haven’t heard of that one. Am I losing my touch? Tell me which part of your body you hobnob with, and I’ll let you know if it’s likely to happen.”</p><p>“Good gracious me,” the Captain groused. “I’m talking about horseplay, you ruddy deviant. Illicit dalliances!”</p><p>“Right, right.” Julian felt a little disappointed. “Nothing more illicit than ‘spin the bottle’, I’m afraid. It’s a little juvenile compared to my old escapades, but beggars can’t be choosers.” </p><p>The Captain did not respond beyond a slight frown.</p><p>“Well, you can sit that one out, if you must. Sit in a corner and do your knitting, or whatever it is you do for fun -- count tanks running over civilians until you nod off, I don’t know. Just -- just make sure you’re there. For, y’know,” Julian untucked a hand from where it was nestled between bicep and sternum and waved it flippantly, “<em> morale </em>.”</p><p>The Captain shook his head. “Morale, is it? Alright,” he muttered dubiously, but he was smiling that lop-sided smile of his still, and Julian found his own mouth twitching in response. “You’ve twisted my bally arm, as usual.”</p><p>“Excellent!” Julian beamed, clapping his hands together. “You won’t regret it.” With a bounce in his step, he crossed the kitchen and dropped back into his seat at the table. </p><p>The Captain moved to leave, his hands once again clasped firmly behind his ramrod straight back.</p><p>Rather than returning his attention to the newspaper as he’d intended, Julian found that his eyes followed the man, found them studying those broad shoulders with something like curiosity.</p><p>“Wait,” he barked suddenly, just as the Captain was about to disappear through the door frame. </p><p>The man halted in his tracks and paused only briefly before turning slowly on his heel. “What?”</p><p>Julian licked his lips. “Do you reckon ghosts get morning breath?”</p><p>He couldn’t say where it had come from, or why. He could only do his best to keep a serious face while the Captain stared at him and repeated his initial question incredulously.</p><p>“Morning breath,” the politician repeated evenly, unflappable even in the face of his own stupidity. “Y’know, bad breath when you wake up? Destroyer of marriages, killer of moods, ruiner of otherwise enjoyable one-night stands? Do you suppose we’ve been spared that particular misery?”</p><p>Exasperation settled resolutely back onto the Captain’s features. “How the devil should I know, Julian?” he returned, sniffing dismissively and squinting slightly. “I -- we all sleep alone.”</p><p>Well, that was true enough. He hummed in agreement as the Captain shook his head in disbelief and finally took his leave. </p><p>Julian was left alone with a strange feeling unspooling in the pit of his stomach: half-interest, half-alarm. It was probably how Indy and Elsa felt when they found the location of the Holy Grail in those flooded catacombs, only Julian couldn’t quite pinpoint the cause. The sudden silence that befell the room only seemed to exacerbate it.</p><p>He shook his head to dispel the feeling, making a mental note to question Thomas later, who, he was certain, would have a name for it.</p><hr/><p>“Sodomy,” Thomas explained, slowly and carefully, as he tucked both legs to the side of his body, “was illegal in my day.”</p><p>“Mine, too, actually,” Humphrey agreed. “Apart from those few years under Mary…”</p><p>Julian watched with amusement as Alison held up a finger and quieted them both instantly. The music from the speakers filled in the silence easily and Julian tapped his thumbs against his knees as the vocalist sang cheerfully about the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, his heart lighter than it had been in a while, his smile easier and more sincere. It felt very much like a merry two cider buzz: a loose contentment, fuzzy at the edges but solidly warm at the centre. A welcome sensation.</p><p>“First of all, guys, and I thought I’d made this clear earlier -- there is actually <em> no </em>sodomy involved in spin the bottle.” </p><p>“Well--” Julian started to interrupt, but Robin, who was seated left of him in the circle, clamped a hand firmly over his mouth. The caveman pressed a finger to his own lips and shook his head solemnly. His hand smelt <em> awful </em>.</p><p>“Thank you, Robin,” Alison said, causing the ape-man to smile bashfully and Julian to roll his eyes. After a few long moments, Robin released him -- satisfied, presumably, that such an unenjoyable experience would deter Julian, who was tugging sheepishly at his lapels, from further interruption.</p><p>“Anyway, as I was saying, it’s just a kiss, and all that’s legal now. And you did <em> all </em>agree to this when I explained the premise to you. Remember?”</p><p>“Oh, yeah,” Humphrey muttered, frowning in thought at the empty bottle pointing toward him. “I mean, it’s not the fact that he’s a man that’s the issue, though.”</p><p>“It’s not?” </p><p>“No,” he continued. “It’s more to do with my, um, precarious situation.”</p><p>Alison considered this. “Ah.”</p><p>In the spirit of the season, everyone had made a special effort to reunite Humphrey’s head with his body, and he now sat cross-legged in the circle, as whole as the next person, smiling sunnily at them all from atop his shoulders. The only problem -- and Julian saw it now that it’d been pointed out -- was that the slightest pressure would probably send his head rolling off again.</p><p>“Are you quite sure,” Thomas groused, “that it's pointing to Humphrey -- and not Alison? It looks an awful lot like it’s pointing to A--”</p><p>“Alison is not playing,” came the Captain’s voice a few meters away from the circle. “Neither of us are. I thought we made that rather clear.” </p><p>The Captain sat in an old armchair, visible to Julian from between Pat, who was sitting on a cushion, and Fanny, who had insisted on a chair. True to his word, the Captain had arrived and taken part in every party game prior to ‘spin the bottle’. He’d even consented to Kitty’s ridiculous suggestion, a variation on ‘Chinese whispers’ wherein each player whispered a compliment about someone to the person next to them, which was then repeated around the circle until it reached the ‘someone’ in question. Julian had indirectly received a wholly intact compliment from the Captain’s mouth that he would not be forgetting  in a hurry. It was so straightforward as to be utterly impervious to misinterpretation, despite passing through several mouths, and so ridiculous as to prompt a collective hysteria that had taken the Captain half an hour to recover from: <em> Julian is tall. And he has legs </em>.</p><p>Clockwise from Fanny sat Kitty, then Thomas, Mary, Julian himself, Robin, Humphrey, and finally Pat to complete the circle. They had all requested chairs originally, but Julian had shot down their requests, reasoning that it would be far too reminiscent of an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. He regretted it now that his bum was starting to go to sleep and his back was aching from lack of support. </p><p>“For someone who’s not playing,” Julian chipped in, straightening his spine and delighting in the loud crack it made, “You sure are sticking your oar in a lot.”</p><p>“The bally cheek,” the Captain murmured. “I’m only here in the first place because you--”</p><p>Thomas cleared his throat and puffed out his chest, drowning out the Captain’s fussing with, “Fine. Fine. I shall fulfil my sworn oath.”</p><p>A murmur of excitement arose from the circle, but the little ooh-ers and raised eyebrows only made Thomas scowl the harder and blush the deeper. Julian grinned at the Captain, who shook his head disdainfully and returned his attention to the book Alison had laid out on a side table for him.</p><p>“Oh,” Humphrey said, sounding genuinely surprised. “Oh, alright then.”</p><p>Julian emptied his lungs of air in one drawn-out exhalation, but found himself smiling even through the huff. “Oh, just get <em> on </em>with it!” he heckled.</p><p>In spite of the poisonous look Thomas shot Julian, the poet very much <em> did </em>get on with it. He unfolded his bent knees and stood gracefully from his cushion, tugged nervously at his waistcoat, and took three steps forward to kneel before Humphrey. Each movement was as prim and as proper as ever, calculated to avoid having to crawl to the other side of the circle on his hands and knees. </p><p>Robin and Pat, helpful by nature, steadied Humphrey's head on either side.</p><p>"Oh,” Humphrey mumbled, "thanks, guys.”</p><p>Thomas cleared his throat, his cheeks furiously pink. “The heart and service to you proffer’d,” he began gravely, the overlapping chatter and hoots of laughter dying down, “With right good will full honestly, refuse it not since it is offer’d, but take it to you gently!”</p><p>There was a brief moment of confused hush -- which Julian was about to break with another jeer -- but then, without any further ado, Thomas cupped Humphrey’s jaw with his hand and pressed their lips firmly together. </p><p>It was a careful, chaste kiss, but it lasted far longer than anyone expected. Another cry sprang up from their audience; a unified cheer of encouragement, delight, and shock that seemed to spur Thomas on. The longer it went on and the further both men relaxed into it, the lower everyone’s jaws dropped. Even Fanny and the Captain, who resolutely refused to take part in the din, were unable to look away from the spectacle.</p><p>“Oh my golly <em> gosh </em>,” Kitty squealed when Thomas finally pulled away and smiled triumphantly, a dramatic bow and flourish of his hand causing a fresh wave of commotion. </p><p>A quiet, “Good lord.”</p><p>Julian wolf whistled good-naturedly as Thomas, practically glowing with pride, returned to his seat. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Thorne.”</p><p>Humphrey, for his part, seemed dazed beyond words, brows almost touching his hairline. “Wow,” he said breathlessly, and then, looking at Thomas, “I knew him, you know.”</p><p>Thomas quirked an eyebrow. “Who?”</p><p>“Sir Thomas Wyatt.”</p><p>Before Thomas could respond beyond a look of utter, gobsmacked disbelief, Julian intervened, preventing what he could only assume would be a very boring conversation about some long-dead Tudor. “Come on, who’s next then?”</p><p>“Oh, it be I!” Mary exclaimed, and another bout of encouraging shouts arose. </p><p>Julian smiled contentedly at the excitement and glanced around the room, basking in the relaxed, upbeat atmosphere that the chaotic group so rarely managed to cultivate. His eyes landed on the repose of the Captain, whose inanimation was conspicuous amidst the rabblerousing. </p><p>Wilfully oblivious to the noise, the Captain leant forward in his armchair to study his book, eyebrows knitted together in contemplation, fingers stroking his facial hair absent-mindedly. Alison had become so engrossed in the games that she hadn’t turned the page for him in at least fifteen minutes, so Julian could only assume he wasn’t actually reading it anymore. Now and then he would smile or mutter to himself, as if lost in a happy memory, and Julian, within whom that odd, nauseating feeling had once again begun to unwind, was gripped with the sudden, nonsensical desire to abandon the game, to stand and join him, to ask what he was smiling about, even if he refused to reveal it.</p><p>It was only when the Captain glanced up and met his eye that Julian realised someone had been saying his name.</p><p>“Hm?” he said, blinking and looking at Alison. “What?”</p><p>“It’s your go, Fawcett,” Thomas helpfully supplied, looking more than a little smug. </p><p>So it was. As Julian took stock of everyone watching him, the past few minutes of his peripheral vision returned to him, and he remembered Mary standing up, curtseying, and kissing Fanny very demurely on the cheek to a collective ‘aww’.</p><p>“You ready, Julian?” Alison asked.</p><p>“Yes, yes, hurry up then, I haven’t got all day,” he replied testily, ignoring her smirk and waving his hands condescendingly. </p><p>“Yes, you do,” Thomas countered, as Alison knelt to spin the bottle again with a quiet but long-suffering sigh. “You’re dead. You’ve got all the time in the world.”</p><p>“My afterlife may not have an expiration date, Thorne, but my tolerance for you lot certainly--”</p><p>“Oh, it be pointings to the Captain, tha’s for certain!” Mary cried out suddenly, and Julian felt his heart stop dead in his chest. His head snapped downwards in search of the evidence.</p><p>“Well it can’t be,” Thomas said, “because he’s not playing -- is he?”</p><p>The Captain sat bolt upright. “I most certainly am not!” </p><p>“It between, uh, uh, Pat and, uh, Fanny,” Robin supplied.</p><p>“Yes, Robin, obviously.” Fanny rolled her eyes.</p><p>“Well, if the Captain’s not playing, I don’t see why I should have to--”</p><p>“Oh, come on, Pat, you can’t just--”</p><p>“We could just spin it again?”</p><p>“Oh, but that’s against the rules!” Kitty protested.</p><p>“It’s definitely pointing more toward Pat than Fanny--”</p><p>“Are you blind?” Humphrey countered. “That’s on her side--”</p><p>As they bickered amongst themselves, Julian noticed that the tension had returned to the Captain’s jaw again, the tension he hadn’t seen in months. The man was clearly acutely stressed by the turn of events and desperately uncomfortable with the attention he’d suddenly attracted, and Julian <em> knew </em>he ought to leave well enough alone, knew he should have learnt his lesson by now, that pushing the Captain’s buttons might not actually resolve anything, at all, ever -- would probably make it worse, in fact, and yet--</p><p>And yet<em> -- </em></p><p>And <em>yet</em>, he felt a wild desperation coursing through his bloodstream. The familiar itch hummed a crazed, childish refrain ( <em> look at me, look at me, look at me, please just look at me </em>) beneath the surface of his skin. It was a remnant, no doubt, of the attention-seeking behaviour that had landed him on a conveyor belt of consultation rooms and therapist’s offices from age six until age thirteen, when they’d sent him to boarding school to be someone else’s problem.</p><p>“There is an obvious solution,” Julian interrupted, his distinct, obnoxious voice cutting through the overlapping arguments and quieting them. He looked very pointedly at the Captain and raised an eyebrow meaningfully. </p><p>The Captain glared back, his eyes dark and dangerous, sending a thrill up Julian’s spine. “What part of ‘not playing’ is unclear to you, Julian?”</p><p>“The part,” he smiled serenely, languishing under the heavy weight of the Captain’s gaze, “where you did not sign a binding contract.”</p><p>“Julian--” Alison tried, but the Captain stopped her.</p><p>“It’s quite alright, Alison.” He took a deep breath. “I’m not playing this ridiculous game, Julian, and that’s the end of it.”</p><p>“Oh, bloody hell, come on, mate -- there’s already been two gay awakenings tonight, what’s one more?”</p><p>Well, that really did seem to be too far, because everyone’s breath seemed to freeze in their chests simultaneously, like witnesses to a car crash. Even Alison was speechless, unable to rescue the Captain as they all waited for his undoubtedly earth-shattering response. Julian prepared himself for all manner of insults, knowing he would take whatever the Captain threw at him with his usual smarm.</p><p>“Oh <em>I'll </em>do it,” Pat squeaked, breaking the unbearable silence. “I’ll do it, just stop fighting, please!”</p><p>Despite the pain on Pat’s face, he did look like he meant it, and everyone looked at one another in surprise. Julian exhaled slowly through his teeth, knowing this was checkmate, that it would be strange for him to keep pursuing the previous solution now that an alternative had been provided. </p><p><em> I’m doing it for his own bloody good, you morons </em>, he thought to himself, doing his best to smile rather than scowl. </p><p>None of them understood that sometimes people just need a little push. When Julian was six, his father had thrown him into the deep end of a pool. Yes, it had been terrifying, and yes, Julian had consequently developed a lifelong fear of drowning -- but the important thing was he had learnt how to swim. If everyone kept insisting on giving the Captain arm bands, nothing was ever going to change.</p><p>“Fine,” Julian agreed tersely, and crawled over to Pat without any further ceremony. </p><p>Pat looked vaguely afraid of his advancement, but Bananarama’s <em> Love in the First Degree </em>playing through the speakers had filled Julian’s chest with a deranged, offbeat sort of confidence, so he leant into Pat’s space without a second thought and threw his weight bodily into kissing him. </p><p>
  <em> (The hours pass so slowly since they've thrown away the key.) </em>
</p><p>Julian focused on the saccharine pop music to distract himself from how odd the tickle of Pat’s moustache felt against his upper lip. He was vaguely aware that he’d grabbed a handful of Pat’s hair.</p><p><em> (Can't you see that I'm lonely, won't you help me please </em> <em> .) </em></p><p>And he was very, very distantly aware of the fact that he wasn’t <em> not </em>enjoying it, but he (very, very distantly) reminded himself that this was the first time he’d kissed anyone in thirty years so it was bound to awaken something in him. </p><p>
  <em> (Only you can set me free, ‘cause I'm guilty, guilty as a girl can be.) </em>
</p><p>Huh. This really was the first time he’d kissed anyone in thirty years.</p><p>The realisation was as pathetic as it was jarring.</p><p>Julian only realised his tongue had been inside Pat’s mouth once it exited, and then everything else came back simultaneously: the eruption of gobsmacked noise, the shock on Pat’s face, the glaringly empty armchair.</p><p>“God, Julian, you were really going for it.”</p><p>“Pat, are you okay?”</p><p>“Bloomin’ heck. I haven’t been kissed like that since my wedding night.”</p><p>Everyone was either too distracted or too grateful for the broken tension to take notice the absence, but Julian did. When he looked around, he saw the familiar military uniform disappearing into a hallway.</p><p>“Hey, hey, it my turn next!” </p><p>Robin’s voice and the rhythmic beat of 1980s electro-pop grew fainter and fainter. On some level, Julian registered his name being repeated again, but that grew fainter, too, until he had passed through the wall and all the sounds of revelry and confusion became muted at once. </p><p>Julian saw a blur pass through a wall at the end of the hallway and followed hot on its heels, his heart beating furiously against his chest. The emotion that dragged him forward from the centre of his chest was utterly nebulous. It was red hot and searing and he wanted to call it anger just so he had a name to call it by, to compartmentalise it, but it had none.</p><p>“There you are,” Julian huffed, breathless, when he burst gracelessly through the wall and the last of the Pet Shop Boys' queer warbling was silenced by several inches of lath and plaster.</p><p>The Captain whirled around like a trapped animal, frantic and wild-eyed, surrounded by mid-century furniture and lamps that hadn’t worked in decades, looking every bit like an old lion in its sad, parodic little zoo enclosure. He seemed surprised to see Julian.</p><p>“You,” he breathed.</p><p>It was attention he’d wanted, and attention Julian had got, but somehow it managed to surprise him when the Captain came hurtling into his personal space and slammed him unceremoniously against the very wall through which he had just phased.</p><p>The only thing more baffling than ghost physics was his body's response to the Captain gripping the lapels of Julian’s blazer. His knuckles pressed white-hard against each of Julian's collarbone, the tip of the drill stick dangerously close to his face, and Julian only realised the sensation had made him whimper loudly once it was already far too late to explain it away as anything but unbridled lust. </p><p><em> Bollocks, </em> he thought. <em>Bollocks, tits, shit, fuck, arse</em>.</p><p>And then he thought, Please <em>do that again.</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Afterparty (Julian’s Deathday, part II)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>🚨 RATING CHANGE ALERT 🚨</p><p>This chapter is explicit.</p><p>Thanks to Vee and Jen for all the support with this!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the moments that followed Julian's strangled cry, the old room was briefly still again. </p><p>Only the rain rapping insistently against the windowpanes punctuated the sound of their laboured breathing. It was dark within, but the garden lamps shone brightly outside, casting a faint, second-hand luminescence over the room, dimmed by distance and obstructed by indirect angles. Pale echoes of the light poured over the shabby furniture, projecting rivulets of rain onto the muted, night-grey walls, streaking and striating Julian’s shocked face as he stood there, pinioned in the darkness, and watched the Captain with eyes that glinted green and bright even in the oppressive gloom.</p><p>The Captain spoke quickly before the sight overwhelmed him, before the silence became unwieldy and inescapable.</p><p>"What is it?" he demanded, voice hoarse and half-whispered but ferocious enough to wrench them both violently out of the strange, transfixing moment that had hung between them. The fury felt out of place in the quiet repose of that lonely room, so far from the raucous scene they had abandoned, so still. No echoes of music nor laughter could reach them here but they still resounded loudly within the claustrophobic walls of the Captain’s mind: words and images flickering behind his eyelids like a record skipping, things he was trying fruitlessly not to dwell on, things he could not forget.</p><p>He found his voice once more to growl, "What is it about my -- proclivities, hm?” Spittle flew from his mouth, catching on his teeth and lips. The Captain was painfully aware that he sounded quite mad -- but if it was so then Julian had driven him to it through years upon years of pillorying. “Why can't you just let sleeping dogs lie?” </p><p>Then he clamped his jaw shut, painfully tight, as he begged himself not to continue. It would do no good to say it aloud. Julian must know. How could he not? The Captain was a stranger to subtlety, despite his best efforts to court it. When he looked at the politician, he remembered all the times those perceptive eyes had looked straight through him. He remembered that mouth on someone else’s, the unbidden jealousy that Julian must have known it would cause. He remembered that cold sneer.</p><p>“Is it…” The Captain paused, voice tight. “...Because...?” </p><p>Julian’s eyes widened, uncomprehending, alight suddenly with curiosity and confusion. When he swallowed, the sound was acutely audible in the uneasy quiet. His hands gripped the Captain’s wrists as if to pull them away, but no such movement followed. </p><p>"Listen, mate -- I don’t -- I just came here to--" Julian started, scrambling for his politician’s façade, but the Captain was having none of his weaselling. Not today.</p><p>"No <em> you </em> listen, you puerile, mannerless, bedswerving recreant. I’ve had it up to here with this… this miserly delight you seem to take in humiliating me! This ends today -- here, now, in this room -- because heaven only knows how many more years I'll have to put up with your vindictive tongue, and I refuse -- <em> refuse, </em>do you hear me? -- to spend the rest of my afterlife cringing in front of that lot every time you so much as open your bally mouth.”</p><p>The Captain tried again, with one last valiant effort, to quell the dizzying recklessness that surged up in his chest, but the words spilled forth anyway, pouring out from a deep, long-buried well of emotion. </p><p>“Is it really just a punchline to you -- like everyone else's demons -- just more bally ammo for your never-ending barrage of spitefulness? If…” </p><p>The Captain steeled himself, tongue heavy but unable to sink the confession beneath the great waves of emotion.</p><p>“If you find my attraction to you so repulsive, Julian, why on earth do you keep bringing it up?”</p><p>That was it, then: there it was. The words uttered, the bridge crossed. </p><p>The Captain, feeling nauseous now, readied himself for a blow -- physical or verbal -- but none came. He’d expected disgust, perhaps a bout of laughter, but Julian only stared at him, wide-eyed and unmoving. The spitting rain continued to cut across his motionless face, which was half-obscured by shadows, half-lit by dreary lamplight. </p><p>It was torturous to be suspended like this, in this moment, with their chests pressed tight and their lifeless breath ghosting over one another’s faces. The Captain hated how handsome he found Julian, hated the waves of his gelled blond hair, falling out of place and curling against his forehead, hated the sincerity with which he peered at the Captain now, his expression uncharacteristically open and vulnerable. The Captain wanted Julian, wanted him without the foggiest idea what that entailed or what act it could be translated into. He only knew he wanted Julian shamefully and that shame rose to his cheeks.</p><p>“Answer me!” he roared, eyes brimming with tears now as his anger began to turn to dust in his mouth, giving way to shame and disgust, but with one last desperate surge of adrenaline he tightened his fists and pulled Julian closer just to slam him more sharply against the wall. “Answer me, you ruddy great <em> coward </em>!”</p><p>Julian’s answer was to wince and writhe and finally to whine, a wild flurry of action so startling that the Captain almost let go of him. He peered in shock at Julian’s open mouth, the corners of his lips stretched taut in a pained, desperate grimace. </p><p>“Please,” Julian begged. “Fuck, <em> please</em>. I-- I don’t-- God, I need--”</p><p>“Stop it,” the Captain seethed breathlessly, voice cracking at the edges. His fingers tightened in Julian’s lapels instinctively, drawing another pained gasp from the man, breathy and wanton. This time the Captain was sure of the underlying joke: a feigned pleasure meant to mock him for his attraction. </p><p>It was too late by the time he realised his body had reacted to the proximity and Julian’s hyperbolic moan of its own accord.</p><p>“I don’t know -- I… I didn’t know -- <em> please</em>,” Julian babbled.</p><p>“This has gone far enough,” the Captain snapped, disgusted at his cowardly begging and endless lies. “It’s bad enough that you humiliate me in front of everyone -- you don’t have to keep up this childish charade when we’re alone!”</p><p>Mortified by his body’s reaction and driven blindly into action by pure rage and hurt, he pressed the weight of his body forward, his knuckles digging into Julian’s collarbone so sharply that he half-expected them to crack.</p><p>He hated it more than anything, this old hurt. The Captain had carried it his entire life and carefully learnt to live with it like a sleeve tugged over a scar. But here, in death, was Julian: the closest thing he had to a kindred spirit in a house full of kind, courageous idealists, pouring salt into all those self-inflicted lacerations and pressing his fingers into all the hidden bruises. The others were content to let him be, content to let him deal with it the way he always had, through omission and denial, but here was Julian.</p><p>Here, squirming in his vice-like grip, always so determined to be the centre of attention.</p><p>The Captain watched with dawning confusion as Julian’s nostrils flared and his eyes widened then rolled back in their sockets. Immediately, Julian pressed them tightly closed, but not before the Captain saw the tell-tale glint of moisture clinging to his eyelashes.</p><p>“What… What the devil’s gotten into you, man?” he demanded, temper dampened by panic. “What’s wrong with you?”</p><p>Julian threw his head back and released a long, low growl, which the Captain registered bemusedly as impatience. When his hazy, half-lidded eyes opened in a daze, he looked as wild as a stallion resisting the bit.</p><p>“What’s wrong,” Julian hissed through gritted teeth, eyes narrowing into a glare that belied true mania, “is that I’m a bloody sex-obsessed degenerate and nobody’s touched me like this in thirty years.”</p><p>The words brought the world to a grinding, screeching standstill. </p><p>The Captain’s mouth twitched as if to respond, but he knew there was nothing he, coming as he did from a world of rules and restraint, could say to such a brazen statement. These were deep, murky waters he found himself in. This was uncharted territory. Yet when he recalled that moment, months ago, that brief, maddening touch of Julian's fingers, he thought he might finally understand the meaning of it.</p><p>The air, so dry and stuffy, felt different suddenly, sharper, and when the Captain took a breath, his rib cage expanded against Julian's chest. The actuality of the other man’s body -- its minute motions, its soft pliancy, its hard angles -- made the next breath catch somewhere in his throat. </p><p>And then, somehow, despite its inevitability, the kiss surprised him.</p><p>Julian’s mouth was so heavy and sudden that the Captain instinctively flinched away, or perhaps was propelled backward by the force of it. The hesitancy was short-lived, however, because something in his chest burst open when Julian’s hands gripped his waist firmly, strong enough to be felt even through the thick layers of wool, and he kissed Julian back forcefully, a veritable assault. He wasn't entirely sure which of them was in control of it, if indeed either of them were, but it mattered very little when Julian's mouth was burning his tongue like a good scotch: rich and painful and vital, vitally real, even in death.</p><p>The Captain felt off kilter, unbalanced like a ship running aground, but that juddering halt brought with it a shocking realisation. Julian was so real; an unbearably solid bulwark in their intangible world of spectrality. The Captain wanted to bury himself in Julian's solidness, to be harboured by it, but his own desire startled him as much as Julian’s, the evidence of which he could feel pressing insistently against his own thigh.</p><p>At some point, he realised Julian was fumbling uselessly with the buttons of his military slacks and automatically reached down to bat Julian's inexpert fingers away. Unable to look him in the eye, the Captain pressed his forehead against the man's shoulder, into the space his fingers had moments ago been bruising, and squeezed his eyes shut. Once he’d unbuttoned his own fly and balled his fist in Julian’s shirt, he realised, belatedly, what that meant -- where this was heading.</p><p>What did Julian expect of him? Was he supposed to sink to his knees and take Julian in his mouth, like the men and women in the videos left open on Alison's laptop? Was he supposed to take the lead, to be a leader? Heaven forbid, did Julian want the Captain inside him? The thought of having to perform such a task unplanned, unprepared, and with so little experience under his belt, terrified him so completely that he froze.</p><p>Sensing his reticence, Julian's hands stilled where they were now awkwardly attempting to fathom the next layer of buttons, and asked, "What is it?"</p><p>"I…" the Captain pressed his face more firmly against Julian's shoulder, burrowing into the padding of the suit jacket and the jut of his clavicle. "I can't, um… I don't…"</p><p>After a few long beats of silence, Julian took up the mantle, sounding uncharacteristically patient when he asked, "Can't what?"</p><p>He could feel Julian trying to get a look at him, head withdrawing and twisting awkwardly, but the Captain refused to face him. </p><p>"I, ah, lack your... spontaneity, Julian," he said, begrudging but delicate, then cleared his throat to continue, "and I don't know what you… expect… from me -- <em> of </em>me…"</p><p>Julian laughed at that: a huff of breath that ghosted over the Captain’s hair as his chin bumped against the Captain’s ear. "You're the one who jumped me, mate. I didn’t expect anything but a bloody nose."</p><p>The Captain didn't quite believe that, but it was spoken with as much conviction as a lying, cheating politician had at his disposal. It was infuriatingly difficult to tell what was real with the man, especially in this moment, when the Captain was wondering if every mocking word and derisive comment over the last thirty years had been building to this resolution, or if they had both gone barking mad.</p><p>"Well, what on Earth -- what were you planning on doing?" he asked, shifting his head slightly. Julian's chest rose and fell heavily against him, each breath pushing him away and drawing him back again. With every second that passed, he felt his courage wane.</p><p>"I was just going to, y’know -- use my hand."</p><p>“A--ah,” said the Captain, coherent thoughts dissolving as his imagination skipped ahead to Julian wrapping one long, broad, experienced hand around him and guiding him to completion. His body thrummed eagerly in response. “Goodness. Um.” </p><p>It wasn’t courage that returned to him, per se, but rather a newfound hysteria emboldening him. Now that he knew what lay ahead, should he agree, he felt he could not live without it. His blood burned at the tantalising closeness of that thought becoming reality. He couldn’t let it go -- wouldn’t. </p><p>"Okay, yes. Okay," the Captain managed, wincing at the unsteady eagerness in his voice. "Yes please, Julian."</p><p>Another huff of laughter caught the short strands of hair atop his scalp, and he reddened knowing that Julian was laughing at him again, but somehow it only strengthened his resolve. </p><p>Wordlessly, he undid the buttons of his cotton drawers to free his straining length, but didn't dare touch himself. Instead, he braced himself against the wall with one hand, the other finding purchase in fabric once again, then turned his head to face away from the act. His cheek burnt against the navy fabric as he awaited the fulfilment of a century-long fantasy.</p><p>When Julian grasped his the base of his erection in one large hand, the Captain could not have prepared himself for how intensely the sensation would seize him. A noise left his mouth, almost a shout, and his fists balled so tightly that his fingers trembled. His whole body tensed. Julian didn't flinch this time, only held him while the Captain relaxed into it, and then slowly moved the tight circle of his hand upward to the head. The Captain cried out again and tipped forward, at once chasing the friction and overwhelmed by it.</p><p>“It’s -- ah, it’s too much -- I can’t -- Julian,” he whined senselessly, toes curling in his steel-tipped boots.</p><p>Julian made a noise of acknowledgement (or apology, he couldn’t be sure) and the Captain was released, just briefly, while Julian spat into his hand. He grimaced at the vulgarity of it but soon forgot his objections when Julian gripped him again and squeezed and stroked until he was slick with saliva and a thin trickle of his own seed. </p><p>The acute frenzy of his pleasure was mortifying. How many years since someone had touched him? Seventy? Eighty? And how many since he'd actually enjoyed it? He wasn't sure such an enjoyment had existed beyond his own hand or imagination. Any pleasure had been half-felt, diminished by his lack of attraction to the young women who had tried so valiantly to make him feel good. </p><p>Now, he rutted desperately into Julian’s hand with a fervour he could not control.</p><p>Julian shifted and grunted and then there was a new sensation for the Captain to gasp at: the slide of Julian’s length against his own.</p><p>“Good <em> lord</em>,” he hissed, pressing his face harder against the rough cotton of Julian’s jacket and ignoring the sting of the fabric. “I…”</p><p>“God, that’s...” Julian murmured feverishly, moaning with relief, evidently equally disorientated by the feeling of hot skin sliding against hot skin. His hand was almost big enough to wrap around both, but it was the press of their bodies that kept their erections firmly trapped in place between them. “That’s…”</p><p>With his free hand, Julian grasped the Captain’s wrist and disentangled it from his shirt. For a strange moment, the Captain thought Julian was going to thread their fingers together, but instead his hand was guided southward, stopping short of being placed anywhere. </p><p>The Captain’s Adam’s apple pressed against Julian’s body when he swallowed nervously. It was a choice, he knew. He could place his hand on Julian’s hip, or push it beneath the man’s shirt, or ball it tightly in his hair, and Julian would likely still cry out with appreciation, if the man was half as desperate for the Captain’s touch as he seemed. It would take far less courage, too, but the Captain considered this a time for courage, a time for taking leaps. Bravery did not always come naturally to him, but pride diffused, warm and glowing, through his chest when his fingers grasped Julian’s cock and the man threw his head back with an outrageous moan. The noise was startling in the otherwise quiet room, and he was quite sure it was an overreaction, but he enjoyed the sound of it far too much to hush him.</p><p>“Uh, <em> God</em>, yes,” Julian whined as they moved in-sync, thrusting and touching and tightening. "Yes, that's…"</p><p>The Captain tried to respond but couldn’t make it past a few idiosyncratic mumbles, the incoherency of which was only exacerbated by his delirium. Embarrassment still lurked in the corners of his wretched brain but it was getting easier to ignore. He tried to scale the world down, to focus on the feeling of his cock bumping against Julian's stomach, pushing through Julian's fist, sliding obscenely with Julian's hardness. He tried to escape his own head, where everything had to be planned out and predicted, and instead fully inhabit the impulsiveness of his body, which was barrelling head first toward oblivion.</p><p>“Let me see you,” Julian mumbled, “please.”</p><p>A hand curled over his own and he felt reassured by the contact as Julian guided his movements. He let himself be led; let Julian, with his years of experience, teach him how to grasp them both together, how to find a rhythm, how tightly to squeeze. </p><p>The Captain found himself wanting to look at Julian’s face but he couldn’t bring himself to turn his head all the way, instead settling his forehead against Julian’s shoulder. He opened his eyes to stare down at their connected bodies and felt a small sob break from his clenched teeth. The sight of their cocks grinding together roughly was obscene beyond words. </p><p>He was on the brink of sobbing, the image burning itself into his retina. “Julian, please -- please -- I need to…” </p><p>The Captain felt Julian's free hand come to rest against his neck, those long fingers splaying up his jaw, his thumb hooking beneath the Captain's chin.</p><p>“Please, let me see you,” Julian said again, bouncing his shoulder meaningfully, trying to pry the Captain away with his fingers. The desperation in Julian’s voice was so arresting and the Captain’s control so far gone that his embarrassment gave way and he did as he was bid. He was pliant in Julian's grip as the man guided his head back until they were face to face. </p><p>In all his long years -- all his failed romances, all his hidden magazines, all his wet dreams -- the Captain had never seen such a debauched sight. Julian’s blond hair was unkempt and damp with sweat, curling against his temple, catching on his wet eyelashes. His bottom lip was trapped so tightly between his teeth that the Captain wouldn’t have been surprised to see blood dripping down his chin.</p><p>But it was his eyes that truly drove the Captain wild: wide and bright and looking at him so intently he felt sure Julian could see right into the lonely abyss of his seasick heart. That sea-green stare looked not through him but at him, into him, pinned him in place as powerfully as the fist pumping his cock with tight, brutal strokes. The dimness of the room seemed only to intensify the fierce light of his eyes, as urgent as twin searchlights steering him ashore amid the deafening pitch-blackness of a raging storm. It was a far cry from the carefully constructed mask Julian usually wore, the layers upon layers of detachment and insincerity, but the brightness was blinding, too -- deflecting, in its own way.</p><p>Every sound and sight felt magnified tenfold until the Captain couldn’t bear it, until all the grunts and strokes coiled in a tight knot somewhere beneath him, deep in the depths of his shaking body: a writhing, tightening viper’s nest of sensation. </p><p>“I’m--” he tried to say, even as he was already tipping over the edge and into the white hot oblivion he’d been chasing. “J--Ju--” </p><p>Julian’s head tipped back again, his eyes slipping his shut, and the Captain, unanchored now and fearful of veering off course, surged forward to press his face against the sweat-slick line of Julian’s neck, kissing unspoken secrets into it, the taste of salt clinging to his lips. Something in Julian seemed to snap then and he rutted against the Captain with renewed vigour, his hands working faster and less rhythmically, his panting more erratic and punctured by moans. </p><p>When the Captain came over their entwined fingers, it was with a great cry against Julian’s neck and an incoherent string of half-words and syllables, fingers clutching Julian’s jacket so tightly that they ached. The noises that left his mouth could have been Julian’s name, or they could have been any number of minced oaths, or even a real expletive, but mostly they were incoherent, high-pitched sounds that mortified him to hear tumbling out of his own mouth. </p><p>His hips bucked slowly forward through the aftershocks and then he lost sight of the act because his eyes welled with tears, but he heard Julian follow him over the edge, felt second-hand the shuddering, the tensing and tensing and tensing, until Julian half-shrieked, half-groaned, and the Captain felt the man’s cock twitch and his orgasm spill out over their slick fists. </p><p>They stood there a while: just breathing as their bodies softened and slumped and their hands grew looser. Eventually they had to release their lengths, and the Captain gripped violently at Julian’s clothes to brace himself, felt an instinctively steadying hand land on his epaulette. He leant into the touch; minutes passed.</p><p>“Julian…” was the first thing he uttered afterwards, a confused, complaintive sound. “B… blimey.”</p><p>“Mmm,” Julian agreed and chuckled quietly. The Captain hadn’t the faintest what was funny but he huffed a laugh anyway. </p><p>The snap of Julian’s elastic waistband spurred him into action and with a deep breath he pushed himself out of Julian’s space and looked down to tuck himself back into his trousers, his flies almost as embarrassingly slow to rebutton as they’d been to unbutton. </p><p>Once they were both decent again, it became hard to imagine it had really just happened, that liaison. Yet his cheeks were still flushed and ruddy, his breathing still ragged, his body still aflame in the afterglow of such intense pleasure. He’d never imagined -- never <em> expected </em>-- to share such an intimacy with a man, certainly not when he was alive but it had seemed equally unattainable in the afterlife, surrounded as he was by normal men of traditional persuasions.</p><p>The fact that Julian was... Well. Perhaps it oughtn’t have been surprising.</p><p>Still unable to look the man in the eye, the Captain fixed his gaze on the knot of Julian’s tie and asked, in a voice far quieter than he’d intended, “Now then. What happens next?” </p><p>“Well,” Julian began with a contented sigh, looking more relaxed than he had in a long time,  “I suppose we could branch into using our mouths. From there we could work up to the act itself, y’know. We’d have to debate positions, I suppose, but beggars can’t be choosers, can they, so I’m happy to just continue with--”</p><p>Even with the memory of their act fresh in his mind, that maddening image that would not leave his mind, the words struck the Captain as far too vulgar, and he recoiled slightly. “No, no, ah,” the Captain interrupted quickly, licking his lips and lifting his gaze. He met Julian’s eye nervously, mouth a hard line. “You misunderstand me. I rather meant... What happens between us?”</p><p>It was a sensible question, he thought. This was an unprecedented situation for him, but surely Julian had experience of it -- must have, to have married. The Captain’s previous sexual encounters were far less successful than he considered this one to be, as he had never enjoyed his womanly trysts the same way, nor remained friends with the revolving door of girls with which his well-meaning friends had set him up.</p><p>Julian frowned down at him, still breathing harder than normal, eyes still figured out how to focus. “Us? I don’t... What do you mean? Beyond sex?” A faint hint of panic had creeped into his widening eyes. “Nothing happens between us-- we’re still, I mean-- we’re just…”</p><p>“Nothing?” the Captain repeated, dumbfounded. “I… I don’t understand. I thought...” He felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment: how had he made it to forty-six-years-old with such a haphazard, incomplete understanding of romantic relationships? It must be so obvious to Julian, what happens next, knowledgeable as he was in these sorts of affairs. “Do we… I mean, when do we tell the others? What do we… In public, I mean -- what ought we do? It was so very different in my day, you understand what with all the secrecy and -- I’m sure it was very different for you--”</p><p>“Captain,” Julian interjected quickly. The name sounded strange in his voice; he seemed always to avoid addressing him by the title. “Look…" He licked his lips, glancing away from the Captain: at the ceiling, the window, the furniture, growing slightly frantic, as if searching for an escape route. The Captain soon understood why. "I don’t really... <em>do </em> feelings.”</p><p>Julian finally met his eye again, seemingly by mistake, and they stared at one another.</p><p><em> No</em>, the Captain thought sluggishly, the only coherent word able to cut through the sudden wave of nausea.</p><p>"Especially, um, not with... men.”</p><p>The Captain didn’t understand.</p><p>Julian had to be -- wasn’t he -- surely?</p><p>“Why--? You don’t--?” Julian went on, babbling.</p><p><em> You don’t mean this</em>, the Captain thought, betrayal buffeting him like a tundra wind, chilling him to the bone. <em> You couldn’t. </em></p><p>There was genuine panic in Julian’s voice now. “For <em> me</em>?”</p><p>Not just panic. </p><p><em> Bally hell</em>, the Captain thought numbly as he watched the flash of revulsion appear on Julian’s face and felt the warm hand drop from his shoulder, leaving him untethered, knees trembling dangerously. This was just like it had once been, like it had always been: the flicker of recognition and then the disgust, the same expression pulled over and over by men who got too close to the Captain, close enough to see him for who he really was.</p><p>He stared at Julian with a deadening gaze. “What? No,” he lied, even as he felt his chest collapsing inwards. “I-- I-- I have to-- Look, I think it’d be best if you-- if we--” </p><p>“Hang on,” Julian interrupted, visibly grappling with his own gut reaction, “you didn’t think -- did you -- that you and me--?”</p><p>“No,” the Captain said again, quicker this time, sharper. Something hard within him snapped. The floodgates, which Julian had only just prized open, bolted shut with a resounding boom. The silence was unbearable. He forced a smile and knew it must have looked unconvincing. “Of course not.”</p><p>Julian’s mouth hung open -- a gormless spectacle. The Captain could not fathom how he’d found the same image attractive mere minutes ago.</p><p>“It’s just,” Julian went on, as if the Captain hadn’t spoken, “men don’t really do it for me.” </p><p>“Right. Of course,” he responded flatly.</p><p>“I mean -- I’m glad I could help you come to terms with your… erm… your… y’know.”</p><p>The Captain cleared his throat, his jaw tight.</p><p>“It’s just that I’m not like that… not like you.”</p><p>
  <em>Like me.  </em>
</p><p>Of course he wasn’t. The Captain had got this all wrong. To think Julian capable of feeling anything for anyone but himself was preposterous, he saw that now. The man’s desire was a black hole: nothing existed beyond it. No tenderness, no kindness, no fidelity. It was always all about sex for Julian. How had the Captain forgotten that? He’d even said it himself: <em> I’m a sex obsessed degenerate, nobody’s touched me like this in years </em>. It was the Captain’s own fault for imagining tenderness and emotion where there was none. He was a fool, through and through.</p><p>“But,” Julian went on, “I mean, I’m not saying -- I mean, I’m very happy to keep exploring it with you, y’know, on an, um, purely physical level. No strings attached, that sort of thing.” He seemed to brighten again, attempting to steer them toward safer ground, and a little of his salaciousness returned. Then he added, with a wink that only antagonised the Captain further, “It’ll be our little secret.”</p><p>“Mm,” the Captain said, attempting to hide his visceral reaction to that word. <em> Secret</em>. A slow, vicious smile appeared on his face, masking the hurt. He’d had quite enough of secrets for one lifetime. “Tempting, Julian, very tempting,” he said, trying to remain calm while anger once again burned his lungs. </p><p>Julian’s eyes lit up and his body relaxed with relief, but the Captain felt his own growing tenser by the second, the brief looseness brought about by orgasm already dimming.</p><p>“I-- I rather think,” he started, clearing his throat to rid his voice of the emotion that kept bubbling forth, “I mean to say, I think not.”</p><p>Julian’s face fell.</p><p>“This… What just happened between us, Julian, was a moment of madness. I see that now.” He pursed his lips. “As you say, these sort of things shouldn’t happen between men. It’s not right.”</p><p>“Hang on, I didn’t say it shouldn’t happen, I only… I only meant that…”</p><p>The Captain held up a hand. “I know precisely what you meant and you were right.”</p><p>“I was?”</p><p>“Yes, quite right.” He forced another smile. “If it’s companionship you’re after, I’m sure Mary would be most obliging.”</p><p>Julian was staring at him as if he’d gone quite mad. Perhaps he had. “Mary?!”</p><p>“A far more pleasant prospect than sharing your bed with a man, I should imagine.” The Captain could hear the vitriol in his words despite his best efforts to keep it at bay. “I take it this encounter will go unmentioned to the others, given how clear you’ve made your embarrassment?”</p><p>“I…”</p><p>The Captain didn’t want to stand there a second longer. He could feel his chest begin to heave, the misery once again settling there, that old pain flaring up and driving him toward a state unfit for company. He would retreat to his bedroom, the one place he was permitted privacy in this godforsaken house, and there he would listen to the distant revelry and let his emotions overtake him just for a while: a brief, controlled release to prevent it happening in public.</p><p>“Farewell, then, Julian.”</p><p>When he turned on his heel, he felt a hand grasp as his elbow, but he wrenched himself free of it before Julian could get a good grip on him. “Wait,” he heard the man say, but the sound brought a sneer of hatred to the Captain’s face and he stalked away quickly; so quickly that he forgot his drill stick. It reappeared in his hand when he was already halfway down the hallway, when he saw Pat appear round the corner, smiling and searching for them, the very picture of ignorance.</p><p>“Cap,” he started cheerily, though his face had already fallen by the time he finished saying it, the thunderous expression on the Captain’s face stopping him in his tracks. </p><p>“Not now, Patrick,” he growled, recalling the kiss that had sent everything spiralling out of control and hating Pat for his part in it. </p><p><em> If you hadn’t let him kiss you,</em> he thought to snarl. <em> If you hadn’t let him bally kiss you, you bumbling idiot</em>. </p><p>Pat’s eyes darted to stare at Julian and the Captain took the moment of distraction to shove past him unkindly, tunnel vision clouding his thoughts. He had to get to his room. He had to get there right now.</p><p>“Oh, ey!” he heard Pat yelp, then turn to Julian: “What have you done?!”</p><p>Behind him, he could hear Julian shouting, could hear Pat shrieking in response, but the rushing of blood in his ears drowned out the words. There must have been tears in his eyes but he didn’t care. He didn’t care at all anymore. He just needed to get away from this, this awful scene, this second-rate tragicomedy that had been playing on a loop since he was old enough to feel that awful, immoral desire in the pit of his stomach.</p><p><em> If you hadn’t let him kiss you,</em> he thought again, to himself this time, this sound of the argument fading as more voices added to it. </p><p>He hated them all. He would not miss them at all. This was the final act of his cyclical drama.</p><p>This was the part where someone left. This was always the part where someone left. It had to happen like this, it always had. It was inevitable.</p><p>But this time, he realised sinkingly, even as he reached the safe cocoon of his private quarters and stood there, chest heaving and pulse quickening as he finally succumbed to panic, this time there was nowhere to run from him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Julian is such a bitch and I like him so much :)</p><p>A big, blanket thank you to Vee for proofreading, cheerleading, and not allowing me to throw this all in the bin every time I encounter a brief obstacle</p><p>Hang out with me on Tumblr @gayvillains if you're so inclined</p><p>
  <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4s9i6a3nKHFGuP67P3RWN4?si=JxrxMtFNS7iUxoOjZyTnhA">My Julian playlist</a>
</p><p>
  <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0kuEENGJgUmQuvG0iEITFe?si=716964cee1594c9a">My wangsty Julian playlist because I'm ridiculous</a>
</p><p>
  <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5cZeKhKo4mTO4ySGgC14pL?si=ao849CH7Rw2nd72D3eOOzg">My Cap playlist</a>
</p><p>
  <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0F2MHvmmVw6oRGSvJ7Ehvm?si=947pXVKCQZmcBPqcAhnovw">Fic playlist</a>
</p></blockquote></div></div>
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